While the Heart Beats
by Haley94
Summary: Jamie Reagan and his family suffer through the agonizing fallout of episode 3x22, "The Bitter End." Contains missing scenes and spoilers for episodes 3x22 and 3x23. Now up, our long-awaited conclusion - Jamie gains a new understanding of fear and courage, and Frank gains a new appreciation for his boys.
1. Chapter 1

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note:** Missing scenes and major spoilers for episode 3x22, "The Bitter End."

* * *

It rained in New York City that night.

As a kid, Jamie had always loved the rain. Even now, the sound of drops against glass brought back childhood memories in a sudden, fond rush, and he was seven years old again, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling with drowsy eyes and listening to the idle, easy summer rainstorms. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still hear his parents' voices downstairs, soothing and familiar, and the cackles of Joe and Danny as they got in one last tease on an indignant Erin before bed. It was the familiar rhythm of life in the Reagan household, and he hadn't realized at the time how easy it was. Life had been simple, then.

Jamie tried to pull in a deep breath, but it strangled halfway into his lungs. He dropped his head again, pressing his forehead into his knees.

_I'm here_. A whisper on the darkness.

He ignored it.

Night had always been a safe place for him, too. Much to his mother's chagrin, he'd never had a problem running errands in the middle of the night or, as a teenager, taking a walk all the way down to Owl's Head Park at 2 a.m. just to clear his head. He'd never thought anything of it; he had four cops in his immediate family alone, so he knew a thing or two about how to take care of himself. It was a habit he would keep his entire life in New York City, before he himself became a cop and after he wore the shield. It had gotten him into trouble a few times - Chinatown during the Blue Templar fiasco came to mind - and his mother had certainly never approved, but he did it anyway. He remembered one lovely spring night in particular, when he had slipped out of the house at four a.m. to catch a breath of the blooming Japanese camellias and lavender down near New York Bay. They never smelled as good as they did in the early morning on a fresh breeze, and at the time he couldn't comprehend why his mom didn't understand that. Her reaction to him sneaking into the house through the kitchen door at 5 a.m. had been unprecedented. "You're grounded for three weeks, Jamison Reagan," she snapped. "And believe me, when your father gets home from tour I'll be having a long conversation with him. You'll be lucky if he doesn't lock you in your room for the summer."

Jamie had stomped up the stairs to his bedroom, taking them much harder than necessary, and barely paused when he saw Joe lounging at the top, sitting two steps down in flannel pajama bottoms, his legs stretched out. "It's not fair," Jamie fumed, stopping to glare up at him. "I'm grounded! But I didn't do anything wrong!"

"What have I told you?" Joe asked. "Clear these things with me first, Jamie."

He gritted his teeth, chest heaving with indignation, and glared at his older brother. "Why do you always wait up here for me anyway?"

"Because you're always getting into trouble," he grinned back. "Sounds like mom's pretty mad."

Jamie frowned. "I didn't think she would be. She shouldn't be. I didn't do anything wrong."

"I can read mom better than you can," Joe smirked. "I definitely could've told you she would be mad about this."

"I only wanted to take a walk. Dad says it's okay."

Joe cocked his head. "Not this late. Not by yourself. And definitely not when you're twelve."

Jamie folded his arms over his thin chest and scowled to hide his crumbling expression. "I'm sick of being twelve."

Joe's arm came around his shoulders a moment later, and he leaned into the embrace. "No worries, kid," his brother said fondly. "You won't be forever. Pretty soon you'll be eighteen like me and going off to college, and then you'll be some fancy lawyer somewhere, married with six kids-"

"I don't want to be a lawyer," he snapped as Joe tugged him up the remaining stairs. "I told you. I want to be a cop like Danny and you."

"I don't think mom's going to-"

"I want to be a cop!" he whined, lower lip trembling. "And I don't want six kids either."

Joe's arm tightened around him. "All right then. You'll be the best detective in the city, just like gramps and dad, and you'll have a hot wife- no, I know you still think about cooties and all that, but trust me on this one- a hot wife, and you'll solve lots of cases and get lots of bad guys, and then before you know it, you'll be old and in a home and some pretty nurse will come in every day to give you a sponge bath."

Jamie squirmed. "Will not."

"Don't worry, kid. I'll be in the room across the hall, and we'll make sure Danny's right next to us to keep things lively. How's that sound?"

_I'm here, Jamie._

It was an unusually cool night, and Jamie shivered when a breeze touched his wet skin. He tightened in on himself. His butt had long ago gone numb agains the cold railings of the fire escape outside his loft, but he didn't care. He honestly had no idea how long he had been here, sitting with his back pressed against the bricks, letting the downpour soak through his jeans and sweatshirt. It didn't matter. Maybe if he was lucky he would catch pneumonia and die. Maybe he could just stay here forever, shivering in the darkness, wet and cold and alone.

_You're not alone, kid. I swear to you. I'm right here._

His chest swelled, ached. He didn't know if it was from the impact of the bullet that his vest had caught or his heart itself, dry and painful in his chest, cracking open.

The tears on his cheeks mixed with the rain.

)()()()()()()()(

Jamie had one of those retro lofts, with the tall ceilings and high windows. Danny figured it probably looked slick to Jamie's friends, those new-age latte-drinking nerds that he had hung around with in college and law school, but the place had to be a bitch to heat. It was probably the sort of Official Big Brother Conversation he should've had with Jamie somewhere along the way, but finances were one of about a thousand things they'd never discussed. They were brothers, sure, but they had a ten-year gap between them that was more like the Grand Canyon most of the time. Danny couldn't relate to more than a fraction of who Jamie was before he'd gone to the Academy, but even then, his decision to become a cop had been so unexpected that Danny wondered if he'd ever known his little brother at all. They'd made progress since he'd been on the force, but most days they were still dealing with a chasm.

But not today. Danny wouldn't allow it.

"I'm here, Jamie," he whispered into the darkness.

Jamie didn't react. He hadn't been reacting for a while, and Danny was counting the minutes until his father arrived. He'd sent a 911 text twenty minutes ago already, and if dad was in one of his high-level chief pow-wows that was just too damn bad. This came first.

Danny shifted where he sat on Jamie's slippery hardwood floors (probably original to the place) and leaned a little more against the windowsill, ignoring the rain that dashed in against his face. His shirt was already soaked through and the floor had puddles of water standing around him, but it didn't matter. The window was stuck open, jammed and slightly crooked halfway up in its frame. It offered plenty of room for Jamie to have scrambled out onto the fire escape. Danny's heart had nearly stuttered to a stop when he came out of the bathroom and found no sign of his brother, just the open window, and Noni had flown unbidden into his mind. He'd covered the distance to the window in a single, strangled heartbeat, and there was his brother, not peering over the edge but simply curled in on himself in the rain, soaked and shaking. "Jesus Christ, kid," he had said, and just started to haul himself over the ledge when Jamie shook his head in the darkness. "Stop," he said tightly.

The grief in his voice took Danny to his knees, and he leaned hard against the windowsill, nearly folding over it. He could almost reach Jamie from where he sat, but he didn't dare reach out. "Jamie, I'm so sorry," he managed. "I am so goddamned sorry."

Jamie didn't respond. He didn't even turn his face toward Danny. Danny tried again. "Can I... can I at least come sit with you, kid?"

"Just give me a minute. Give me... please?"

"I can't let you stay out there."

"Just give me a minute," Jamie said breathlessly, breathing into his knees.

Danny's instinct had been to clamber ahead over the windowsill and bodily drag his trembling brother back inside, but he could almost feel the grief resonating off Jamie, and it wasn't the kind of pain he could slap a Band-Aid over. He knew how to fix problems with his hands and his actions, not with words. That had always been-

-hell, that had always been Joe's job.

With that, Danny had slipped to the floor completely, and he fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket to text his father. _Joe, help me,_ he had prayed in the darkness. _Help Vinny. Help Jamie. God, help all of us tonight._

The rain fell, cold, steady. Every few moments, Jamie's breath hitched on a half-formed sob, and Danny's heart ached.

"You're not alone, kid," he called softly. "I swear to you. I'm right here."

)()()()()()()()(

"Drive faster," Frank Reagan said. His voice sounded flat and emotionless, even to his own ears.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Yes, sir."

Frank's grip tightened on the cell phone in his hand, and he woke the display for the hundredth time since this endless drive had begun. **911 get to Jamie's - meltdown**, the text from Danny read. He'd stood up abruptly from the conference table as soon as he read it, and the few chiefs and super chiefs who had already made their way in jumped when he did.

Garrett had stood quickly as well. "Commissioner?"

"My son," he said aloud, and everyone in the room seemed to deflate a little, expressions tightening in shared pain or softening in pity. "I... Garrett, call me when everyone's assembled. I'll call in, or get back here if I can, but... I need to get back to my son. Now."

"Yes sir," he replied quietly. "Your detail is ready downstairs."

It had been as simple as that, and now, as his driver and bodyman whisked him through the darkness toward Jamie's loft in the lower east side, Frank leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

The horror of the past six hours washed across him like nausea.

)()()(

"So what are we missing here?" Linda asked, looking over the Sunday dinner table in Frank's dining room.

"Uncle Jamie," Sean piped up helpfully.

"He took on an extra tour." Frank frowned as he said it. He hadn't been in the best of moods anyway, and he knew exactly what his youngest was up to with the sudden change in his work schedule. Vinny Cruz couldn't stay away from the Bitterman projects, and Jamie wouldn't allow his partner to go in alone. It was noble. It was right.

But for a father, it was hard to swallow.

He had changed the subject, and the dinner conversation had rolled into its usual, easy flow as beef, potatoes and vegetables were shared across the table. Danny and Erin had even managed to engage in a relatively civil conversation about who was at fault for the conditions in the project, but Frank couldn't remember exactly what they said. He never would, because just as Erin stabbed a piece of cauliflower on her fork and used it to gesture at her older brother with a smirk, Frank's cell phone rang.

He had left his phone on the sideboard, and he cleared his throat and wiped his mouth as he stood to retrieve it. His family's conversation carried on behind him as he glanced at the screen, saw Garrett's number, then thumbed the button to accept the call. "Reagan."

"Frank."

And he knew instantly something was wrong, because he'd never heard that tone in Garrett's voice before. Butter wouldn't melt in the mouth of his DCPI most days, but the voice on the other end of the line sounded... rattled. Choked, almost. "Garrett?"

There was noise in the background. Someone was shouting an address. It sounded frantic. "Frank. We... we just received word that Los Lourdes ambushed two cops in Bitterman about six minutes ago. Multiple gunshots. We got a 10-13 before losing contact, but a couple of 911 calls put both officers down at the scene. We're moving in with the full cavalry right now."

Frank's stomach turned cold. He gripped the edge of the sideboard to steady himself, rattling the china, then turned. The conversation at the table had gone abruptly silent, and even the children were staring at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Erin and Linda seemed a bit more tuned in, but Danny's gaze was the sharpest. Frank's eyes locked with his, and Danny, who could always read him like a book, was up and on his feet in an instant. "Dad?"

"Bitterman," Frank said, and Danny frowned, clearly anxious for more, as Frank lifted the phone back to his mouth. "Garrett, let's-"

"Frank, the officer who called in the 10-13 was Jamie. We haven't been able to raise him on the radio since."

Frank blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Frank. It's Jamie and his partner. That's all I've been able to confirm."

There was a strange buzzing in Frank's ears that almost drowned out Garrett's voice. He stepped back, his free hand fumbling for the edge of the table. "Oh," he said aloud. "Oh, God." He stumbled back to his chair, knees giving out as he collapsed into it.

Danny was in front of him in a blink, crouching down. His face had lost its color. "Dad," he said sharply, and Frank felt Danny's strong hand behind his neck, tugging him forward. "Breathe, Dad. Jesus. What's wrong?"

"Frank, take deep breaths." Linda's voice, calm and steady, broke through the static next to Danny's. She was behind him, and he felt her soothing hands on his back. "Deep breaths, nice and easy. Danny, I can get my equipment if you think...?"

"Dad?" Erin was crouching on Frank's other side, both her hands clasping one of his. They felt hot. When had his skin gone cold? "Dad, what's happening?"

He managed to bring the phone back to his ear. Garrett was speaking again. Perhaps still. "...detail will be there in ten minutes, Frank. Wait for them, you understand me?"

"They'll take me directly to the scene." He wasn't sure how he was even talking. Was it possible to speak with a heart that had stopped?

"I'll advise. If the scene's hot I can't have you there-"

"They won't keep me from him," Frank said coldly. "No one will keep me from my son."

"And I won't either, Frank, but I've gotta find out the situation. We're going to transport to Bellevue; the detail may just take you straight there if he's on the way. Frank, we'll take you to him, wherever he is, okay? Let me get more information. I'll call you back in two minutes. Who's there with you?"

"We're all here," he managed. "We're all here."

"Dad," Danny interrupted desperately. "Is it Jamie? What's going on?"

"Two minutes," Garrett said. The phone went silent, and Frank allowed it to slip from his grasp, bouncing into his lap. He put his face into his hands.

"Francis," Henry said from somewhere nearby. "For God's sake...?"

"Mom?" Nicky's voice, small and scared, came from the other end of the room. Frank looked up, blinking sudden wetness from his eyes. She had abandoned her place at the table and was standing next to Henry's empty chair, Jack and Sean huddled close. "Mommy?"

Frank placed his hands on his thighs; gripped them to stop the shaking. _Please, God. Please God, not my son. Not Jamie. Please, God. Not this._

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. He cleared his throat weakly.

_Please God, not Jamie._

"That was..." He swallowed. "Jamie and his partner have been attacked in Bitterman. Jamie called in a 10-13, but now Central can't raise either of them on the radio. They think..." His voice cracked. "They think Jamie and his partner have been shot."

Linda inhaled sharply, and Henry recoiled from him, staggering back a step and just managing to catch himself on the sideboard. Danny and Erin both seemed frozen in shock, but as he watched, Erin's wide and disbelieving eyes began to fill with tears. She blinked, once, and the tears spilled over as her face crumpled into agony. Linda was quickly beside her, kneeling to pull her into a tight embrace as Danny rocked back onto his heels. "Dad," Danny whispered in a broken voice. "Dad, this can't... you're not..."

"They were ambushed," Frank managed. His voice broke again. "Two officers down."

"Son of a bitch," Danny breathed. "Son of a bitch!" And he exploded, tearing himself away from Frank to leap to his feet and strike the dinner table with both fists, sending wine glasses toppling and china rattling. He spun to the wall next, his fist tight and railing back. "Danny!" Linda said sharply, and her voice seemed to snatch his punch back just before it collided with the dining room wall. He gasped, a painful, scorched breath, and cracked his forehead into the doorframe, choking on a sob instead and pressing his hand flat against the wallpaper. "God, no," he whispered. "God, no. No!"

Erin tore herself away from Linda's shoulder with some reserve of strength, turning to meet her father's eyes. "How bad is it? What did they say? How bad..."

"I don't know. We're getting them out. I don't know anything else."

"Linda, where are my keys?" Danny asked suddenly, his head snapping around to scan the room frantically. "I've got to go - Linda?"

"My detail's on the way," Frank interrupted, raising his voice in a futile attempt to take back control of the situation. He knew there was no controlling this, but he at least had to try. "They're taking us to him. Garrett's calling back in two. Get ready to go."

"Leave all this," Henry said, covering the entire table with a sweep of his trembling hand. "Nicky, why don't you help Linda get the boys together?"

Frank nodded. They would all go. Of course, they would all go.

Erin had just gotten her feet under her when Frank's cell phone rang in his lap, and everyone froze. Frank did not allow himself the time to consider the magnitude of what Garrett would have to share, and he didn't look at the frightened eyes that were upon him from every corner of the dining room. Instead, he accepted the call and lifted it to his ear. "Reagan," he said.

"We've confirmed that they've both been shot, Frank. What I don't know is how bad. Our guys are calling it a hostile scene. Scoop and run. We've got at least a dozen units on scene now. Are you ready to go?"

Frank stood, gripping the edge of the table. "I am."

"I'll meet you at Bellevue, Frank. Hang in there. I'll let you know when I know more."

Frank ended the call and looked up to find every eye in the room upon him. "We're going to meet them at Bellevue."

"So it's confirmed?" Danny asked. Fear had sapped the color from his face.

Frank simply nodded, hearing the sharp intakes of breath from around him. He met no eyes. "Give me your hands."

Erin blinked but placed her trembling hand in Frank's. He grabbed Henry's hand, who reached out for a reeling Danny, and slowly the rest of the family joined in, making an awkward circle around the ruined dinner. "Our Father, who art in heaven," Frank began, and the rest of the family joined him, stunned by the fine edge of grief that had already severed their connection to normalcy.

There were only prayers now, and desperation, and for Frank Reagan, overwhelming fear.

_Please God, don't take him from me. Please Joe, be sitting at the top of the steps for Jamie now. Please, God..._

The detail - three SUVs, seven men, their faces solemn and unreadable - met them at the door of the house three minutes later, and two minutes after that they were gone.

Frank sat in the backseat in silence. His cell phone did not ring again but he held it close. He didn't think. Couldn't. Wouldn't. He sat and he waited for whatever was to come.

_My mother. My wife. My son. What next? God, you can't take another from me._

Danny was with him in the back of the car, and he was clutching his own phone like a lifeline, doubled over at the waist. He spoke only once. "Dad, I won't lose him. I won't."

Frank didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.

The silence stretched on.

Bellevue's emergency entrance was six-deep with police vehicles, many with emergency lights still on, blue and red painting quick, bright casts of color against the hospital's white exterior. Officers, hospital workers, and bewildered visitors were everywhere, moving through the chaos. As the vehicles pulled to a stop, Garrett called again. "You here?"

"We're here," Frank confirmed, stepping out of the SUV. His feet had no more touched the pavement than the large sliding glass doors to the ER swept open and there was Garrett, striding out with purpose and pocketing his phone as he moved. Danny was a silent, hollowed-out shadow at Frank's side, and he felt the rest of the family press in.

Garrett was shaking his head before he even opened his mouth. "We can't do this out here. Come with me."

Frank locked his knees. He wasn't moving from this spot without at least some information. "Tell me what you know."

Garrett's hand gripped his arm. "Nothing except they're both here. Come on, the ER chief's waiting for you."

Frank allowed himself to be pulled forward as they walked inside the ER, passing the waiting area that was overflowing with cops from the 12th precinct. Frank barely looked at them, and couldn't bring himself to return the salutes of the captains and chiefs in the hallway. Police and city officials were pressed into every corner and alcove, almost materializing out of thin air. Garrett passed a pair of officers outside a set of double doors, and Frank gave a cursory nod to their crisp salutes. On the other side of the door was a large, private waiting area, and an older man with a white beard and bright blue scrubs stood, turning to face them.

"Frank," Garrett said. "This is Doctor Aaron Bainton, chief of emergency medicine."

The doctor shook Frank's hand. "Commissioner, I treated your son when he was brought in not long ago. He's going to be fine. He took a single shot to the chest, but his vest stopped the bullet. Saved his life. He was grazed across the right bicep and shoulder, but those woulds are just superficial. I was with him just a moment ago, and he's awake and oriented."

It was only with a concentrated effort that Frank kept his knees from turning to water. Beside him, he saw Linda melt into Danny's side. "Thank God," he whispered. "Thank God."

"Commissioner," the doctor said quietly. "I'm afraid your son's partner, Officer Vinny Cruz, was DOA. We pronounced him not long after he was brought in. Your son attempted to resuscitate him in the field, but he was shot in the throat. It was not a survivable injury. The first responders, uh... I understand they had to pry him out of your son's arms."

Frank swallowed hard. His stomach clenched, and there was a flavor of bitterness at the back of his throat. "I need to see my son."

"Of course," Dr. Bainton replied. "I'll arrange for it as soon as possible."

Under Henry's guidance, the rest of the family settled into the private waiting room, and Frank followed Garrett to the makeshift war room he had set up in a nurse's lounge, checking security of the scene, status of the investigation, and coordination with local and state authorities. Danny came with him, a silent shadow at his father's side. He had no real business being there but Frank didn't mind his presence. He understood why Danny needed to be nearby. Frank allowed him to hover close and worked, simply worked, because there was work to do, and if he worked he didn't have to think.

Half an hour later, Dr. Bainton returned. "I can take you back to see Officer Reagan now. It would be helpful to have your assessment... we don't need to keep him, but he's pretty shaken up. He won't let the nurses wash his hands... I'd just like you to check in with him before we decide on release. If we need to keep him to let him rest, we can."

"Lead the way," Frank said, and followed the doctor through the twists and turns of the ER until he was led to the door of a private evaluation room and motioned inside.

Frank stepped through the door, then stopped so suddenly Danny almost bumped into him.

Jamie was sitting on a hospital stretcher that took up the majority of the small room, its silver rails up. He was still wearing his uniform pants and shoes but had been stripped from the waist up. His knees were drawn in close and he was curved forward, resting his elbows upon them, hands over his face. His fingers were dark with crusted, flaking blood.

"Jamie," Frank said softly, stepping to the end of the bed. "Son."

Jamie unfolded slowly, and looked up at his father and brother. A swollen, cherry-colored bruise the size of a baseball was forming just under his right collarbone, and Frank saw a white bandage wrapped neatly around his bicep. His eyes were red and sunken, and smears of dry blood were evident on his face, as well. He looked as if he had aged five years in the night. "Dad," he said woodenly.

Danny stepped closer to him, hovering at his side. "Kid," he said brokenly. "Kid, I-"

"It's okay." Jamie shook his head, eyes lowering. "I'm all right."

"What happened?" Frank asked softly, gripping the metal rails at the foot of the bed.

Jamie met his eyes. "I got shot."

_The sudden impact was a hand grenade shattering his shoulder, a garbage truck mowing him down. He was on the ground before he even knew what had hit him, twisting onto his stomach in agony, his chest a fiery mass of pain._

"Did you see where they were shooting from?"

"The roof. I didn't get a good look." Jamie dropped his head to worry the edge of the folded hospital gown someone had left in his lap. "I knew it was an ambush. I tried to warn Vinny, but there wasn't time. The whole quad was empty. They set us up."

"Just like they did me," Danny muttered. "Only this time they were loaded. Jesus, kid..."

"You were hit first?" Frank asked quietly.

Jamie nodded. "I heard Vinny get hit but I didn't see it. I got to cover... and..."

_A hail of bullets, screaming through the air, chewing into concrete. Jamie dove behind the wall for cover, moving on instinct, when he realized Vinny wasn't at his side. He twisted around only to see his partner sprawled on his back, blood pooling in the latch of his throat. His eyes were glazed and looked dead already._

"You pulled him back under fire?" Danny asked.

"I had to. He would've died."

Frank and Danny exchanged a look that Jamie either didn't see or chose to ignore. "Jamie... do you think you can talk to investigators tonight?" Frank asked gently. "It would help them to have your statement as soon as you can give it."

"Yeah. I should probably talk to them while it's all still fresh, right?"

"Only if you feel up to it, kid."

"I do. I have to. Vinny, he... I got him back, you know? But he, um... he couldn't hold on."

_Or wouldn't, maybe, because Jamie was begging him, and his hands were wet with Vinny's blood, but all Vinny could do was smile. Smile, and drift away, and Jamie wrapped his own body around him as though it might ground him, might keep him there just a few minutes longer. He clutched his partner tight and for as much life as Vinny Cruz had, Jamie couldn't tell when his partner slipped from life to death, or when the body in his arms became just that._

Gentle arms came around Jamie himself, this time from his father and brother. "I'm so sorry, Jamie. God, I'm so sorry."

But Jamie wasn't listening anymore.

)()()()()()()()(

Danny decided to stay with Jamie, after that. Frank had to get back to the business of the PC's office, after all, and as adamant as he was about sticking close to Jamie, there was work to be done. So Danny stayed at Jamie's side through the rest of the family coming to visit, and through the official questioning, until he finally had pain killers and muscle relaxants and "a little something for sleep" in hand from the doctors. Danny had secured a patrol car to take them back to Jamie's apartment, and had hovered close to his brother throughout, eager to be of use for whatever Jamie needed - a shoulder to cry on, a punching bag, a listening ear. Personally, Danny was still reeling a bit from the evening himself and wanted to be within poking distance of his little brother, just for reassurance. He was surprised that Jamie neither protested nor asked for a thing. Jamie told the story haltingly when asked, drank water when pressed, sat where he was directed.

As best Danny could figure it, the only mistake he himself made in his constant vigilance over Jamie that night was hitting the john. He hadn't been gone five minutes when he came out to find his brother doing a fine imitation of a pigeon on the fire escape, and thus the longest night had begun.

Danny's feet were going numb and he was checking his phone for the thousandth time when Jamie suddenly spoke. His voice was almost lost in the darkness; in the steady fall of rain. "Did you know Vinny grew up in the Bitter End?"

Danny straightened a little, sticking his head further out the window. Jamie was almost within arm's reach, but muddled and indistinct in the darkness. "I didn't know that, kid."

"He was a great cop. I mean, I hated him at first when we got paired up, but he knew what he was doing. He was a good guy. Wore the shield for the right reasons."

"Yeah." Danny heard the door to Jamie's loft opening, and he twisted to see his father hurrying in, rain still dripping off his overcoat despite the elevator ride to the twelfth floor. Danny motioned him over. "Vinny knew his way around over there, huh?"

"He was so determined to make things right. I didn't even tell you about the mentally challenged kid we helped in a hallway the night of the suicide." Danny could almost hear Jamie's teeth chattering, and he exchanged a quick, concerned look with his father before scooting over to make room for Frank at the window. "We could've gotten killed in that hallway right then. But he always did the right thing. He had a good heart. He was a good guy."

"He was. Hey Jamie, Dad's here," Danny called. "We're both here, okay? And I think you've been outside long enough."

"I can't believe this happened," Jamie whispered. "Why did this happen?"

Frank turned to Danny, his face lined deeply with grief. "Go to him, Danny."

"I don't know if I should," he replied in a whisper, somewhat desperately. "This was always Joe's thing. I don't know what to say..."

"Go," Frank insisted quietly, and after a moment's hesitation, Danny eased himself out the window, holding tight to the fire escape railing to ensure he didn't slip on the wet metal. Jamie's loft was high enough that there was a thick network of fire escape levels below him, obscuring his view of the street, but it was still a little nerve-wracking, especially given the steady rain. Danny crouched down slowly next to his brother, eyeing him with some trepidation, but again, Jamie didn't move and barely acknowledged him at all.

Danny hunched his shoulders against the breeze. God, Jamie had to be an icicle by now. "Kid, you've got to get inside. Have you taken any of those pills from the hospital yet?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Why don't you come on?" Danny asked gently, reaching out got him. "Come on, Jamie."

He shook his head, then hitched in a breath. "What do I do, Danny?"

Danny bit his lip. "You've... you've just gotta get through it, kid," he said, speaking over the steady rush of rain. "There's no getting over it. You've gotta go through. And that's what you're doing. Going straight through."

Jamie swallowed. "Mom never wanted me to be a cop," he said softly. "Look at me. She was right."

"No," Danny snapped. "Jamie, God. C'mon. You've been incredible as a cop. This thing, this thing that happened, there wasn't anything you could do."

Jamie closed his eyes.

Danny bit his lip. "Jamie, c'mon. You gonna stay out on this fire escape forever or what?"

"I like to be out at night," he mumbled.

"You've been out here too long," Danny pressed. "It's time to come back in, kid."

"It'll be dawn soon." He huddled down on himself.

From his place at the window, Danny saw his father grimace. "It's not going to be any better in the light, son," he said gently. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke again. "Have you ever heard of Alison Croggon?"

Jamie didn't reply, so Danny scoffed on his behalf. "Dad, we've never heard of anybody you ask about," he said with forced lightness. "And do you really think this is what we oughta be talking about right now?"

"Alison Croggon," Frank continued, unruffled, "is an Australian poet. And she once said, 'While the heart beats, hope lingers.'"

Jamie straightened, visibly shaking from the cold. "I don't have a lot of hope left right now, Dad. Vinny died for nothing. Don't you get that? He died for nothing. Just like Joe did. He's dead, and for what?"

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Danny beat him to it. "Jamie, Vinny died doing the same thing you do. That all of us do. He died to make this city a safer place. He died taking care of people."

"But he's dead, and I'm not," Jamie whispered. "And that can't be right."

"Little brother, I'm sorry," Danny said. "I've been where you are. I wouldn't wish it on anyone in the world."

And as Frank watched from the window, Danny sat down next to Jamie, huddling close to his brother on the fire escape that looked out over a wet, bleak New York City night. He pulled Jamie's head into his shoulder and for a moment there was silence, and Frank recognized it instantly as that horrible, silent part of a cry that heralds the worst sort of grief. And when it came, it was muffled against Danny's coat and Danny put his arms tight around Jamie as if to absorb all he could, but Frank could hear it still.

Jamie's grief pierced the night, and Frank's and Danny's souls died a little with his, in that dark place before the dawn.

* * *

_"A girl calls and asks, 'Does it hurt very much to die?' 'Well, sweetheart,' I tell her, 'Yes, but it hurts a lot more to keep living.'"_

- Chuck Palahniuk


	2. Chapter 2

**While the Heart Beats, pt. 2**

**Author's Note**: People are tweeting photos of Vinny in Jamie's arms this morning. They're killing me. But the first tweet I saw this morning was, "OMG! It's all hitting Jamie today! :-(" And, pathetically, that was all it took for part two to be born.

* * *

Jamie slept restlessly that night, despite the powerful medications the ER doctor had prescribed.

Danny didn't sleep at all.

Jamie's couch was comfortable enough; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that by the time Jamie's awful, gasping sobs had dried up; by the time he'd gone still where he was pressed into Danny's side, limp with exhaustion, and Danny and Frank had eased him back inside and thawed him out and managed to get him dry and drugged up, there wasn't much of the night left. Frank had slipped out not long after, his face lined and weary, once Jamie had dropped into his light, agitated sleep. Danny had stretched out on the couch, but as a weak dawn struggled through the heavy clouds, he stared up into the blurry dark and his mind spun on.

Before leaving the hospital that evening, Danny had let himself into the waiting room, looking across the sea of officers with haunted faces and pained eyes. They were everywhere, perched on chairs, tucked into the corners beside half-stocked vending machines, huddled in murmuring groups of two and three. He had nothing to tell them, because as they looked up, he could tell in a glance that they already knew.

"Reagan," a quiet voice said. He turned, and took a breath as he saw Tony Renzulli walking up to him, face tight. "How you doin'?"

He ignored the question. "You got a second, Sarge?" Renzulli nodded, and Danny motioned him out of the waiting room and through the double doors into the ER itself, where it was marginally more quiet.

Renzulli spoke first, his expression tight with worry. "How's Jamie?"

Danny shrugged. "Pretty screwed up. Physically he'll be okay, but..."

"Yeah," Renzulli said quietly. "Be sure and tell him we're all thinking about him, huh?"

Danny nodded, inching aside as a nurse hurried past. "I'd invite you back, but..."

"Nah. I don't think... nah. I'll check in on him later."

"Sarge, do you know who was there? Who was first on scene?" Danny pressed. "I'm trying to put as much of this together as I can. I'm gonna need to know as much as I can to help him."

Renzulli smiled, a bit sad. "Me."

Danny startled. "You were?"

"Yeah. I was out with a rookie transfer from the fifteenth. We were a few blocks away; got the first call. 10-85 while they were still in pursuit."

Danny took a deep breath. A twist of dread burrowed into his heart at the unfamiliar details. "Tell me."

"Not a lot to tell. One of the Lourdes bangers snatched a purse to set them up. Jamie called in a 10-85 in Bitterman, so we were responding to that. We were maybe twenty seconds out when the 10-13 came in. Dispatch made it sound like a war had broken out. They tried to raise him on the radio afterward, but we never got another communication." Renzulli swallowed. "There were about a dozen of us that got to the main quad all at the same time. We must've hit it from every angle, but we never saw a soul except for them. I saw some blood, an unsecured weapon... and then I got a little closer and-" Renzulli's voice cracked on the word, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, they were behind a wall... under cover, you know? And there were chunks out of the concrete everywhere. I don't know how many shots they took but it looked like a bomb went off."

"And?" Danny asked softly.

"Jamie was leaning up against the wall. He had Vinny up against his chest." Renzulli hesitated again, rubbing a hand over his face. "There was a lot of blood, Danny. I'm still not sure whose all it was. Vinny... he was gone, but we didn't know it at the time. He looked bad, and Jamie was in shock, y'know? His eyes were wide open and we couldn't get him to respond. And I didn't know who was hit, or how bad..." Renzulli swallowed again. "I had to get right in Jamie's ear and tell him to let go. The guys still had to pry his hands off his partner. I think he already knew."

"Yeah," Danny whispered, and squeezed Renzulli's shoulder. "Thank you for being there."

"Wish I'd have been there five minutes before."

And God knew Danny wished the same, as he lay there in the fuzzy morning light, eyes wide open.

He didn't sleep. Wouldn't dare. He knew if he did, the dreams would come. In them, Vinny wouldn't be the one collapsed and dead with a hole in his throat the size of a golf ball.

Just before they parted at the hospital, Renzulli had turned abruptly to face Danny once again. "Do you remember last year, when Jamie and I got tossed down the stairs at that church?"

Danny smirked, but it was humorless. "You think I'm gonna forget something like that?"

"The kid came to see me in the hospital afterward. I remember, he said to me, 'That was a close one out there today, Sarge. Could've gone either way but it went ours.'"

Danny nodded, and the grief, unbidden, coiled tightly in his gut.

Renzulli's smile was sad. "Take care of him, Reagan. Huh?"

He had nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

Sighing, Danny tossed off the white throw blanket he'd found in Jamie's closet and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. Suddenly oppressed by the silence, he grabbed the remote control and turned on New York One, the volume low, then picked up his cell phone. He returned texts from his father, Linda, Erin and his own sergeant and was in the middle of a note to Renzulli when he heard a muffled groan from behind him.

Jamie was sitting up in the bed tucked into the loft's far corner. His hair was a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled, and he was grimacing, rubbing at his face with his left hand. His right arm was tucked securely into his side.

"Morning, kid," Danny said softly. "Coffee's pretty fresh."

Jamie didn't respond, and Danny stood, making his way over. "Hey," he said. "How you doin'?"

Jamie pulled in a breath, experimentally, and placed a hand gingerly against his chest. "Pretty foggy."

"I thought those drugs would keep you out a lot longer than this. You want some water or something?"

"Nah." Jamie dropped his hand into his lap, staring down into the palm, then lifted it, studying it. Danny couldn't know for sure but he would bet a month's wages what Jamie was remembering, smeared across his hand. "Danny," Jamie said softly. "It's real, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said sadly.

"It happened. It all happened? Not a dream, right?" He sounded defeated, exhausted.

"I wish I could tell you it was, kid."

Jamie ran a hand down his face, swallowing hard before tossing back the covers. "I need a shower."

"Don't you want to eat something?"

"Maybe later." Jamie grimaced as he stood, and shot Danny a glare when he positioned himself close, just in case. "I'm fine. Quit hovering."

"All right." Danny stepped back, watching Jamie until he shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Sighing deeply, Danny grabbed his phone again, dialing the familiar number as he stepped to the window. It was a gloomy morning, the clouds low, the colors washed to gray. "Dad. Hey."

"Danny." His father sounded worse than Jamie had. "How is he?"

"Okay. He just got up and went to take a shower. Not saying much."

"Thought he would sleep longer than that."

"Me too."

"Thanks for staying with him."

"Wouldn't be anywhere else."

"I spoke with Vinny's mother this morning," Frank said, and the words hit Danny like a punch to the gut. "I've got a press conference in ten, and then I'm having my detail take me to her apartment in Queens. If Jamie's up to it I'd like him to come along."

"I'll talk to him, but I'm sure he'll want to go." Danny glanced at the door, hearing the shower start up. "Dad... how was she?"

"In shock," he said quietly. "You remember."

Danny did, and he swallowed, rubbing his eyes. "You need anything?"

"Just take care of your brother for me. We'll be by in about an hour unless I hear from you otherwise."

"Yeah, okay." Danny ended the call and remained where he was, staring out over the city. He wasn't sure how long he remained there, but the sound of the bathroom door opening grabbed his attention, and he turned to see Jamie emerging in a cloud of weak steam, wearing worn gray sweatpants and with a towel draped over his shoulders. "Kid. You done already?"

"I wasn't timing myself." He wiped at his face with the edge of the towel.

"Yeah, well, I meant to," Danny sighed. "Thought you might let yourself turn to a raisin in there if I didn't pay attention."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah." Danny eyeballed his shoulder. "Can I see how that looks?"

Jamie pulled the towel from his shoulders without argument, and Danny grimaced. The injury looked worse than it had a few hours before, the skin just below Jamie's collarbone swollen and turning into a sunset of pinks, reds and purples. "The doc's sure you didn't break your collarbone, right?"

"They said it was fine." Jamie's eyes wandered to the television, and he swallowed hard.

Danny turned, following his gaze. New York One was providing live coverage of the press conference his dad had mentioned earlier, and Frank's solemn face filled the screen. "Live: NYPD Commissioner Frank Reagan," the graphics read. "It's the press conference, you know," Danny said.

Jamie looked away.

"Do you need another dose of meds, kid?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I said, I'm fine." He went to the closet in the corner, yanking out a drawer and rummaging for a shirt.

Danny stepped up behind him, choosing his words carefully. "Listen... Dad called. He's going to pay Vinny's mom a visit after the conference."

Jamie froze, and Danny saw the muscles in his back tense. "He wants me to come?"

"Only if you want."

Jamie slowly pushed the drawer closed, his back to Danny, and abruptly, he sat down hard on the floor. Danny stepped closer, crouching down beside him, careful not to get too close. "What's on your mind, kid?" he asked softly. "Or are you gonna tell me you're fine again?"

Jamie curled his hand into a fist. "I need this to be yesterday."

"I'd make it happen if I could."

"How am I supposed to face her?" he whispered. "Vinny's dead and I'm alive. We went in there together and I'm the only one who came out."

"That's not your fault, Jamie."

"It is my fault." He bowed his head, droplets of water sliding down his temple to his neck. "I was there. It was my responsibility to protect him."

"For God's sake, Jamie, don't torture yourself like that. You did everything you could do."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you."

Jamie tightened his hands on the towel. "They wouldn't let me see him."

"Who?"

"Vinny. At the hospital. I tried to find him, but they wouldn't let me see him."

Danny swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Well, they wouldn't, you know?"

"I need to apologize," he whispered. "I need to tell him I'm sorry."

"Geez, kid," Danny said sadly. "He knew there was nothing you needed to apologize for."

Jamie swallowed, his head still tucked low. "He told me it was okay. I don't know what he was talking about."

Danny's heart sped up, leaping against his ribs. "When?"

"At the end." Jamie choked a little on a laugh. "The Bitter End. Ironic, huh? He had a mouth full of blood and he took his last damn breath to tell me it was okay. To tell _me_."

"Jamie," Danny said quietly. "Kid... rolling around in the mud like this is no way to get clean, you hear me? Nobody blames you. _Nobody_."

"They don't need to."

"Right," Danny said. "Because you blame yourself."

"The truth hurts." His eyes were hard, and he let no tears fall.

Danny licked his lips. "And it's heavy, isn't it? And cold?"

Jamie nodded.

"I know what you're going through, kid. I know how it is. And you know what? You're gonna leave that guilt right here, in a pile on the floor-" Danny tapped the wood for emphasis. "And you're gonna get up and get dressed, and you're going with Dad to see Vinny's mom, and you're going to be proud of the cop you are and the friend you were to him. He was proud of you, kid. He was proud to be your partner, and you're gonna honor that. And this shit, all this guilt and all these what ifs? They'll be here waiting for you when you get back. And you can pick them up again. Or you can be brave enough to leave them where they belong."

Jamie pressed his own hands flat against the wood, his shoulders rounded as though carrying the weight of the world. "Danny," he said. "What do I do?"

Danny stood. "Get up," he said, extending a hand to his brother.

And slowly, painfully, Jamie did.


	3. Chapter 3

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note** - Sorry for the delay in getting this posted, everyone. Please note that I also refreshed the first two chapters, so you might want to give them a look as well for updates that improve the overall story. This update does NOT contain spoilers for the Blue Bloods season finale.

Tissue warning, though.

* * *

"_You gotta let it go and be on our way  
__And look for another day,  
_'_Cause it's not the same, my baby  
__Watch it all fall into the ground  
__No happy ever after, just disaster..."  
_  
- Gavin Mikhail, "Disaster (Acoustic)"

* * *

Dr. Aaron Bainton was a man who knew his city well. A New Yorker by birthright and by heart, the doctor loved his city and had never lived anywhere else; never would. In his nineteen years as chief of emergency medicine at Bellevue Hospital, he'd seen a lot of cases come through the wide, bright doors of his famous emergency room... people of every age, nationality and language, royalty and tourists alike, all drawn together by sickness and injury, tragedy and comedy. The Bellevue ER was his own little sliver of New York City life, and while he'd had plenty of opportunities to move onto into research, he never had. He loved it here; loved being part of such a private and vulnerable place in people's lives and helping them heal. He loved having no two days alike, be it the high-profile drama of a subway accident or the six-year-old yesterday who'd come in for swallowing a handful of pocket change. He loved being the witness; setting their lives right. Most of the time, he could do it.

Sometimes, he could not.

Dr. Bainton had always followed politics and government closely in New York, and had spent many a Sunday morning pouring over the New York Times with his glasses perched on the edge of his nose and a cup of decaf in his hand, laughing at Mayor Russo's ineptness or nodding in silent solidarity with the DA. He often saw Commissioner Reagan's photos in those pages, a rock of a man, quietly and efficiently running the NYPD with the wisdom of a father. He thought well of the man; always had. He wondered idly if he was as physically dominating in person as he appeared to be in the Times photos.

He found out in the early hours of a May morning in 2009.

The call came in around two a.m., when no good calls ever came. By the time Dr. Bainton had been roused from a sound sleep by the emergency message, dressed, and hurried to the Bellevue emergency room, there was little left to be done. The NYPD detective had already been pronounced, and really, according to the attending physician who'd been on that night, he'd been dead before he ever became a patient. "We did everything we could, but he was gone," Dr. Durbin had sighed, slowly peeling latex gloves from his hands as they stood together in the corridor. "Three to the chest. One to the neck. Pneumothorax, catastrophic injuries to the heart and blood vessels, major bleedout..."

Dr. Bainton glanced through the glass doors into Trauma Four. Signs of a frantic race to save a life were everywhere, from pieces of discarded tubing and wraps on the tile floor to the equipment, smeared with blood in some places, now being carefully disconnected as several nurses worked quietly, respectfully, around the gurney in the center of the brightly lit room. "I was told he was on the warrant squad. Why wasn't he wearing a vest?"

"He was. The rounds were armor-piercing." The attending physician pulled the glove off with a snap. His jaw tightened, and Dr. Bainton saw grief flicker across his face, like a shadow. "Thirty-two years old. Makes me wanna puke. We never even had a chance to save him, boss."

Dr. Bainton pulled in a cleansing breath, grounding himself. He looked past his colleague down the hall. In the bustle and confusion, someone had left the main doors next to the reception desk propped open, and he could see the tight knot of officers spilling out of the waiting room at the opposite end of the hall. There were so many of them that they were beginning to take over the corridors now, too, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some were in uniform, some not, and from the number of distinguished looking older men dressed in nothing but than blue jeans and mis-buttoned shirts, he wondered how many of them were brass, rattled from their beds just as he had been. Many were casting anxious glances his way. "Do they know?"

"They ought to if they saw him come in. He was in a bad way. But no one's told them, if that's what you're asking." Dr. Durbin glanced into the trauma room, watching as the nurses finished their cleanup, pulling the sheet flush underneath the fallen officer's chin. "Hospital PR has been notified, and we have security in place outside to deal with any media that show up. The Commissioner is on his way. His public information guy has been calling here every ten seconds, but nothing's been released."

Dr. Bainton's throat was dry, and he swallowed. He had treated victims of 9/11, oversaw the trauma of the Flight 2722 crash from a few years back, and had spoken, calmly and eloquently, at more high-profile news conferences than he cared to remember. But this... this was the hard part. "I'll inform with the family when they arrive."

A sudden commotion down the hall seized their attention, and Dr. Bainton straightened, slightly alarmed, when he saw the police gathered there look up, then spring into action, reacting to a threat he couldn't see. Moments later, he understood when he saw a young man sprinting through their ranks at breakneck speed, busting tackles like a linebacker. They were shouting his name, reaching for him, but he dodged every hand, ignored every cry, and when he tore around the corner toward where the two senior doctors stood, the edges of his worn jacket flapped out and Dr. Bainton caught a glimpse of the shield on his belt. He lifted his eyes to the man's face, and was brought up short by the terror he saw there.

The man skidded to an abrupt, awkward stop as soon as he saw the two doctors, nearly falling to the ground. His face was ashen. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His expression was panicked, warring with the deep, sucking darkness of grief.

Dr. Bainton was in front of him before he realized he had moved, gripping the young man by his upper arms. The man was shaking - from fear, from adrenaline - and the officers and other men chasing him down were taking hold of him now too, as much to hold him up as to show solidarity. "Calm down," Dr. Bainton ordered, lowering his voice an octave. "Calm down."

"My brother," the man gasped, barely able to choke out the words. "My brother, doc. Joe. Where is he?"

One of the officers squeezed the man's shoulder. "Doctor, I'm Bureau Chief Pulaski, NYPD, Chief of Detectives. This is Detective Danny Reagan. His brother Joe was the officer brought in..."

Dr. Bainton stopped listening. His eyes locked with those of the young man before him, who stood there gasping for air, his skin cold, his face desperate. In that moment, Dr. Bainton realized that Danny Reagan's entire life was hinging on the words he would speak next.

He would wonder, later, what expression crossed his face in that moment, because as it turned out he never had to say a word. The doctor blinked, swallowed, and Danny Reagan caught something - something - because his eyes flared wide, and he drew back suddenly, sharply, as if he'd been struck by an invisible hand. "Oh God," he gasped. "God, no, doc. Doc, where is he? Where's my brother?"

Dr. Bainton's grip tightened. "Detective Reagan, I'm Dr. Aaron Bainton, the chief of emergency medicine-"

"Where's my _brother_?" He was almost screaming it, and twisted violently in the doctor's grasp.

"Your brother Joe was brought in about half an hour ago with multiple gunshot wounds," Dr. Bainton said. "Sustained in the field while on duty. He was in full arrest when he arrived, and despite the best efforts of our team-"

Danny stilled in his hands. "No."

"I'm sorry, detective. We weren't able-"

"No!" he howled. His body went lax, a puppet with its strings cut, and crumpled to the floor. Dr. Bainton went down with him. "God, no, please no, don't tell me that. Doc, where is he? Where is he?"

"I'm so sorry, Detective," Dr. Bainton said, fighting down his own emotions. Pulaski had also gone to the floor with Danny, and the other officers were warring with their own grief, faces tight and grim. He shifted to get a better grasp on the shaking young man. "We did everything we could, but his injuries were just too severe."

Danny's head was down, and he was gasping, barely able to take in any air. Dr. Bainton squeezed his shoulder. "Detective-"

"I don't believe you," he wheezed. "Doc, I've got to see him."

Dr. Bainton twisted around to look at his colleague several yards back in the hall, standing in front of Trauma Room Four. He shot him a silent question with his eyes and Dr. Durbin nodded once, quietly.

Danny's gasps were echoing in the hall, bouncing off the fluorescent lights and crisp ceiling tiles. Behind him, Dr. Bainton could see a large, tight group of officers gathered now, keeping a respectful distance but staring, their expressions devastated. Battling his own welling grief, Dr. Bainton stood and, with the help of the tight knot of police around him, pulled Danny to his feet.

From the waiting room, he heard a quick, sharp order, and suddenly the officers were parting, stepping back out of the way, snapping to attention.

Dr. Bainton's stomach knotted. _God help me_, he thought, as several bodyguards in suits and long trenchcoats rounded the corner, dressed for business despite the hour. Tucked inside their protective circle were two men, moving fast. One was an older gentleman with white hair, his face pinched and pale like a man coming off a two-week flu. He recognized him as Henry Reagan, the former PC. Just in front of him was Commissioner Reagan, unmistakable despite his wrinkled slacks and mismatched jacket thrown over a polo shirt. His presence was overwhelming, and he moved with purpose, commanding the hall, only the deep lines in his face belying his worry.

His eyes fell upon them, and he stopped short.

Danny twisted toward him. "Dad," he gasped. "Oh my God, Dad."

Frank Reagan's eyes rounded. They flashed to Dr. Bainton, who cleared his throat. "Commissioner Reagan, my name is Doctor Aaron Bainton. I'm the chief of emergency-"

"Doctor?" The Commissioner's voice was weak, disbelieving.

"I'm so sorry, Commissioner," he said quietly.

A noise wrenched out of Danny, like an animal seized in a steel trap. The Commissioner straightened, fighting to pull in a shaking breath, then another. He blinked, then swayed, and Dr. Bainton realized belatedly that the bodyguards and officers had surged around him, holding him up.

Danny took a menacing step towards Dr. Bainton, lurching like a drunk man as he did so. "Did you even try to help him?" he whispered, and the dangerous note in his voice almost made Dr. Bainton recoil. "Did you even try? Where is he? I want to see him right now, right now, _goddammit-_"

"Danny," the Commissioner said, and Danny stopped. His expression still trembled, anger and sickness and disbelief all bubbling under grief, grief, with an overwhelming desperation in eyes that glittered with tears. "Son, please."

"I want to see him," Danny protested. "Where... doc, where...?"

"Come with me," Dr. Bainton said simply, and Danny sagged back, back into the safety of his father's arms as the Commissioner stepped up behind him and wrapped both around his son. His face was white, blanched with shock. Danny brought up a shaking arm around his father, and Henry's weathered hands came down on each of their shoulders.

The doors to Trauma Room Four slid open silently, and Dr. Bainton walked to the head of the stretcher, looking down with no small regret at the man who lay in stillness, the horrific trauma to his body and throat sealed over by the serenity of white sheets that framed his face, achingly young, and perfect except for a scrape on his temple; a vivid red bruise at his hairline. Dr Bainton swallowed, then looked up at the Commissioner and his family in the doorway, clinging to each other. "I'm very, very sorry for your loss."

The Commissioner stepped to the foot of the gurney, gripping the silver rails. Danny surged to his brother's side, gasping, and laid shaking hands against the cool face. "Joe," he said aloud, brokenly, then said it louder. "Joe, c'mon man. Really? Joe, man. Come on!"

And when his trembling knees would hold him no more; when he collapsed to the floor, sobbing brokenly, it was Henry who gathered him up, because the Commissioner had stepped to the other side of the gurney, his eyes riveted to the body.

As Dr. Bainton watched, Frank laid a massive, unbelievably gentle hand against his son's cheek, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched, silent tears pattering onto Joe Reagan's still face.

Dr. Aaron Bainton had been the chief of emergency medicine at Bellevue for years. He had treated the victims of 9/11. He oversaw the trauma of the Flight 2722 crash from a few years back.

But it was one of the saddest things he had ever seen in his life.

)()()()()(

Dr. Bainton never forgot Joe Reagan. He never forgot the officer's family.

Which was why, on a lovely May afternoon in 2013, he knew with a single phone call that his day was going to hell.

"Who did you say?" the doctor snapped, and the resident looked up from his chart in surprise. Behind him, the ER was surging into action, preparing neighboring trauma rooms for the incoming wounded. "Repeat that."

"It's a Code Six," Dr. Tomkins replied, referencing the code for a high-profile case. He looked a little startled by Dr. Bainton's urgency. "Ambulances inbound; two NYPD officers shot in the Bitterman Housing Project. One critical with a GSW to the throat, unknown injuries to the second. NYPD dispatch is advising that one is..." He checked his notes. "...Officer Jamison Reagan." He stumbled over the name a little; looked up. "Son of the police commissioner."

"God dammit," Dr. Bainton growled, and rushed past the startled resident, barking orders, preparing as best he could even as his stomach went cold and the turkey sandwich he'd had for lunch sat at the bottom like a lump of lead. Four years. Four years ago, he had given the police commissioner of New York City the worst news any father could ever receive, and now here he was again. Here he was _again._

Thankfully, he had little time to dwell over it, because when the Bellevue doors flew open, his training kicked in and he fell into step next to the first gurney, tucking in at the head next to the EMT who was riding the gurney's rails, doing chest compressions as another worked the ambulatory bag. "We've been doing CPR since we picked up," the man gasped to him.

"How long has he been down?"

"At least ten minutes. His partner started CPR in the field. We almost needed a crowbar to make him stop."

Dr. Bainton's eyes went to the officer, and his stomach clenched. The young man was covered in blood, and he was limp, sallow. Dr. Bainton could have fit three fingers into the wound at the base of his throat. He saw the pale face, the dark hair, and he clamped down on his emotions. "Trauma Two," he ordered, and the race to save a life began.

Five minutes in, he knew the race was over before it had started.

The officer - "Officer Vincent Cruz," someone had shouted over the din in the packed trauma room as doctors, nurses and EMTs scrambled around the gurney, and his gut had loosened just a little - had been clinically dead when he arrived, and nothing they were doing could change that. Blood in the lungs. Torn carotid artery.

Dr. Bainton looked at the clock, and the familiar twist of regret burned behind his eyes. "Time of death, five twenty-nine p.m.," he said.

"Doctor, can we have you over here? Please?" A nurse was in the doorway, her face pinched, and she darted next door to Trauma Three.

Peeling off his gloves, he followed her quickly into the neighboring room. He was in the zone, ready for more trauma, more injuries to be fixed, but instead he was met by the sight of a young man sitting up on a gurney, stripped from the waist up, struggling to get to his feet. Two orderlies had hold of him, and a stern-faced nurse was trying to keep him in place. Dr. Bainton's eyes flashed over the young man's body in quick assessment, and he saw a baseball-sized contusion on his chest that he recognized instantly as the impact of a bullet, stopped by a tac vest. His right arm was wrapped as well. Dr. Tomkins stepped forward from the corner. "This is Officer Jamie Reagan," he said, handing over the chart for Dr. Bainton to glance through. "Just minor injuries. Vest stopped a bullet near his shoulder. He wants to see his partner."

Dr. Bainton swallowed, stepping forward. "Officer Reagan? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." The young man gripped the material of the gurney beneath him, and Dr. Bainton saw the dried blood on his hands. It was smeared on his cheek and jawbone as well. He knew it didn't belong to him. "My partner was the one who got hit."

"And your chest?"

"You tell me. The vest did what it was supposed to do." The young man's eyes were on the door. "Doctor, I want to see Vinny."

Dr. Bainton sighed, handing the chart to a passing nurse. "Officer Reagan, it would be best if-"

"I know he's dead," Jamie said flatly, and Dr. Bainton blinked, startled. "I was there," he added, and his voice wavered. "I mean... I know he's dead, doctor. I want to see him."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Officer."

"Please," Jamie said. "I need to see him."

"For right now, I'm going to have you stay here," Dr. Bainton said, even as a nurse stepped close and whispered into the doctor's ear about Commissioner Reagan's arrival. He nodded, then turned back to Jamie. "Please, Officer. There are certain things that need to happen and you've been injured besides-"

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Look at me. I'm fine."

"Well, you'll let us be the judge of that, right?" He smiled gratefully at the orderlies as they gently eased the agitated officer back onto the gurney. "Just wait here for now, Officer Reagan."

Dr. Bainton left the room and turned immediately to the NYPD officer who had materialized out of thin air next to the doorway, standing watch. "Don't let him leave the room," he muttered, and the officer nodded solemnly.

He made his way to the VIP waiting area quickly, and moments later the main doors opened behind him. He turned, and his throat tightened at the sight of the bodyguard contingent. It could have been 2009 in that moment - solid, intimidating-looking men in trench coats, and at their center, Commissioner Reagan. He was wearing slacks and a sweater, but Dr. Bainton would have known his face anywhere. He was pale, but composed, and his family was around him in a tight knot, including Danny - God, Danny Reagan.

"Frank," one of the officials said, and Dr. Bainton was grateful for the moment to compose himself as memories of Joe Reagan's death rushed back. "This is Dr. Aaron Bainton, chief of emergency medicine."

Dr. Bainton shook the strong hand that was offered. He saw no flashes of recognition in the Commissioner's eyes and was grateful for it. "Commissioner, I treated your son when he was brought in not long ago," Dr. Bainton began, and rushed forward when he saw the family beginning to tense. "He's going to be fine. He took a single shot to the chest, but his vest stopped the bullet. Saved his life. He was grazed across the right bicep and shoulder, but those wounds are just superficial. I was with him just a moment ago, and he's awake and oriented."

As Dr. Bainton spoke, he saw a woman embrace a teenage girl, and an older man - Henry, Henry Reagan, there in the back - touched her shoulder. A blond woman sagged against Danny, who swallowed hard and put an arm around her waist. Frank nodded, his eyes misting. "Thank God," he said. "Thank God."

"Commissioner," Dr. Bainton continued. "I'm afraid your son's partner, Officer Vinny Cruz, was DOA. We pronounced him not long after he was brought in. Your son attempted to resuscitate him in the field, but he was shot in the throat. It was not a survivable injury. The first responders, uh... I understand they had to pry him out of your son's arms."

Frank swallowed hard. "I need to see my son."

"Of course. I'll arrange for it as soon as possible."

Within a half hour, he had drawn the Commissioner and Danny from the makeshift war room they had set up in the nurse's lounge, and he watched as they approached Jamie cautiously. Officer Reagan looked awful, and he told the story of the incident quietly, washed in shock. Dr. Bainton watched as they put their arms around him, and finally he could watch no more. He left them to themselves and busied himself with charts at the nurse's station until a deep voice startled him from his thoughts. "Doctor."

Dr. Bainton looked up to see Frank Reagan standing before him, his face creased deeply with grief. "Commissioner," he said. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"I know you did everything you could," he replied grimly. His eyes flicked to Dr. Bainton's face, assessing. "I remember what you did for my son a few years back." His voice wavered; he cleared his throat. "I remember what you did for my son Joe. Thank you for that. And thank you for everything you did today."

Dr. Bainton swallowed hard. "There was very little we could do for Officer Cruz, I'm afraid," he said quietly. "The EMTs got them here in record time, but to be honest, Commissioner, with the injury Officer Cruz had... he could've been hit right here in the ER and I doubt we could have saved him."

The Commissioner lowered his head. "We're trying to get in touch with his family now. Doctor... my son asked me about seeing his partner."

Dr. Bainton sighed. "I don't suggest that. Not in his current state. He's pretty agitated, as you saw."

"May I see Officer Cruz?"

Dr. Bainton hesitated. "Well... for positive identification purposes. Of course."

"Thank you."

Dr. Bainton led Frank Reagan past two different sets of officers until they reached the doors of Trauma Two. The walls were white, the lighting vivid. It was clean, quiet. The body was swathed in white, the face invisible from where they stood.

He looked at the Commissioner. "Sir, are you sure?"

Frank Reagan made no moves forward. He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Of all the places I thought I might be on a Sunday evening, doctor... this one didn't crack the top thousand."

"This isn't a place anyone ever imagines being."

"Oh, I have," he said softly, then turned to look at the doctor. "Do you remember my son?"

"I remember Joe Reagan very well."

"Not a day goes by that I don't think of him. And I'm back here in my nightmares more than I'd care to admit." He took a deep breath and stepped forward, and Dr. Bainton went with him.

The officer's face, and only his face, was exposed. He looked like a thousand bodies Dr. Bainton had seen before; better, in fact, than many. He could've been asleep.

He looked up at the commissioner. Frank Reagan's face was impassive, but his eyes were riveted to the officer's face, stilled by death. The doctor could only wonder what 'what ifs' were running through his mind as he stared at the body. "This is my officer," he said quietly. "My son's partner. Officer Vincent Cruz."

"Yes sir."

"To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord," he whispered. "The dust returns to earth, and the spirit returns to God who gave it."

And as Dr. Bainton watched, Commissioner Reagan straightened, his eyes upon Officer Vinny Cruz's body, and saluted him.


	4. Chapter 4

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note:** Happy Blue Bloods Friday, everyone! This week is my first attempt at filling the awful summer void of no new episodes with some Haley originals. First up is part four of "While the Heart Beats," my ongoing series that looks at Jamie's response to the tragic events that closed out season three. Please be advised, this story contains spoilers for episodes 3x22, "The Bitter End," and 3x23, "This Way Out." Enjoy!

* * *

"_You shot the bullet, you shot the bullet that killed me  
__Not feeling my heart beat, and I was dying  
__I've been through it  
__I've, I've been through all the agony  
__And now my eyes are drying…"_

- Gavin Mikhail, Disaster (acoustic)

* * *

The first night had been a blur.

Jamie was pretty sure he'd been drugged to the gills, thanks to the good doctors at Bellevue, and that was probably a good thing. Time was standing still around him that night and he was standing still within it, caught up in something dark and meaningless, endless. He remembered an ache in his chest like a phantom heartbeat, pulsing painfully on, his own personal ticking proof that time was, indeed, inching forward, though every moment was an eternity. The only saving grace, if indeed anything could be called redeeming about that night, was Danny beside him. He remembered leaning against his brother in the darkness and tears leaking from his eyes, though he wasn't sure how much of that was real.

He remembered rain.

The first day after, the fog had lifted somewhat, and though he could count all ten fingers and carry on a mostly coherent conversation, his body felt brittle, like an empty husk. There seemed to be nothing under his bones at all; no lungs left to breathe, no heart to beat, certainly no soul to ache. He felt nothing but a great emptiness, yawning so wide and vast in the pit of his chest that he could almost lose himself to it altogether. He put on his dress blues that day because Danny told him to, and after that he moved where his father directed him to move; stood where he was led. The only moment of true lucidity came after he and his father's small army of bodyguards, chiefs, and solemn-faced city officials packed themselves into the tiny living room of Vinny's mother, inside her small apartment outside the city. Jamie had stood silently in the corner, his hat tucked under his good arm, and watched her.

She was a tall woman, as broad-framed as Vinny was, her dark hair dusted with gray and flowing over the yellow blouse and bright purple scarf she wore. Vinny had never said a lot about his family, but Jamie could tell that the knot of men and women tucked around her on the couch were blood, because they all looked so achingly like him, especially in the eyes. Her own eyes were tight with pain but her face was strong, and at some point when Jamie had been introduced as Vinny's partner, he stepped forward hesitantly. He was prepared for open stares from the family, hostile expressions; glares that damned him for daring to be alive when Vinny was dead. But there was only grief in the faces around him. Vinny's family barely acknowledged his presence, and when he knelt down in front of Vinny's mother and took her hand in his and told her how sorry he was, all she did was offer a watery smile and mouth the words, "Thank you." They blamed him for nothing; not in that moment, anyway, and wanted no explanations. He was a ghost, drifting through the thick mist of their agony.

And somehow, their emptiness made his own throb all the more.

He'd ridden in the SUV with his father, over to the apartment and back again. At one point on the trip back into the city, his father had placed a hand on Jamie's good shoulder. "How are you holding up, son?"

"I'm fine, dad." His voice was rusty, like bent nails.

The hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "All right. And now the truth?"

He looked up at his father, such a bear of a man, his idol. How could be be anything but fine? "I'm getting through."

Frank nodded. "All right."

And Jamie let that be that.

The nightmares started the second night, and in them, he relived the moment, over and over again. The blood, almost black, that spilled from Vinny's mouth. His eyes, so wide, so startled, trapped in the same disbelief that twisted in Jamie's chest. Over and over again, Jamie clapped his hand over the wound on Vinny's neck, and the blood was hot and pulsing and everywhere. The metallic smell turned his stomach.

It had been the most surreal moment of his life. He had looked out across that deserted quad with a dawning, rising horror, knowing it was a damn trap, but barely getting out the words before he was flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, blasted off his feet by a bullet. He had pushed through the pain, scrambling to safety, then turned to check on Vinny and saw the image that would be seared on his mind for the rest of his life.

His partner, limp and loose on the ground, already halfway between one world and the next, blood pouring freely from his throat.

The second day, Jamie spent most of the morning at One Police Plaza, sitting in his father's familiar conference room, telling the story over and over again. He wasn't sure why everyone couldn't come in all at once to hear it because the room was certainly big enough, but a parade of them moved through and he recounted every detail, each and every time. The tellings were identical. The story could have no other ending, now. The woman in a red jacket standing half a block away, screaming that her purse had been snatched and pointing at a young Hispanic tough tearing off down the street, fast as the wind. Gasping in enough breath to call in the 10-85, keeping his eyes sharp upon Vinny racing along the sidewalk in front of him. The empty quad, silent and eerie.

That afternoon, and the days that followed, were a swirl of darkness. Renzulli had given him the whole week off, right through the wake. He didn't want it, but he took it because he was expected to; dutifully scheduled a check-in with the NYPD shrink. It was the same woman as before, the doctor he'd spoke with after he put two bullets into Gavin Bryant in Washington Square Park back in January. That would be fun. But it was fine. It was all fine.

Friends called. He let them ring through to voicemail. He didn't want to talk, to anyone or about anything. He'd talked enough already. His grandfather spent an afternoon watching baseball on television with him, sitting in silent solidarity next to him on the couch, and Erin brought over dinner three nights in a row. Danny called at least once a day. His father didn't check in, but Jamie knew he had deputized Danny in that regard. And it was fine, really. His father had too much going on with the investigation to talk, and besides, he hadn't raised Jamie or any of the Reagan kids to be fading violets. They had to be strong, because he was strong. They had to be tough, because that was the world in which they lived. His dad would expect him to be fine, and so he would be.

He stayed away from the newspapers, from the television news. He didn't want to see Vinny's face, or that goofy, too-big smile.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Sunken eyes, dark circles. He pressed his fingers into the wicked bruise below his collarbone, turning to dark purple with yellow edges.

The doctors said it wouldn't scar. He wished it would.

)()()()()()()(

The morning of Vinny's wake dawned blisteringly clear. It had rained again the night before, but the city seemed washed clean in the morning sunlight, sparkling with life. The sky was a slate of sweet blue, not a cloud to mar it, and even the faded graffiti on the mailboxes across the street looked good, rainbow colors glittering in the sunlight.

Leaning against the side of his patrol car, Renzulli looked up into the beautiful morning and tried yet again, for the hundredth time, not to sigh.

The Torrezolli Funeral Home was just across the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, not far from the 12th precinct he called home and not all that far from the Bitterman Projects, either. From his vantage point, Renzulli could see the Manhattan skyline in sharp relief against the East River, and such a sight would normally light his eyes with pride to be a New Yorker. On this day, though, his gaze was drawn instead to the green, white and blue buntings that the funeral home owner had hung with careful, solemn precision over the main entrance to the funeral home, and to the knots of officers gathering, a few more every moment, each cutting a crisp and precise figure in their NYPD dress blues.

It was going to be a long day, Renzulli knew that much. The visitation was being restricted to family and close friends that morning, which included the guys from the 12th - that was going to be hard. After that, the rest of the day and the whole day following would be open, and he knew from sad experience that it would be a circus. The street in front of the funeral home would be shut down at noon, and a whole detail of cops would be assigned to simply keep the media back. He could already see New York One and the local ABC and Fox stations setting up shop across the street, and a few photographers had been comparing notes with a cameraman on the far corner. There would be thousands of cops through here over the next forty-eight hours, not to mention the city officials and the hundreds of mourners sure to come from Vinny Cruz's vast network of friends - his high school football team, his younger brother's union buddies, his sister's high school English classes. Hell, his ex-girlfriends alone would probably fill most of a tour bus.

Renzulli grinned, but the levity left him as quickly as it had come.

The commissioner had called him the night before. He had been halfway through a spaghetti dinner and nearly choked on a meatball when his wife had thrust the phone into his lap. "It's Commissioner Reagan," she hissed, her eyes wide as his dinner platter.

He fumbled the phone, choked down a big swallow, and barely remembered to wipe the sauce from his hands before grabbing the receiver. "Sir?"

"Tony." Frank's voice was as rich and warm as always. "How are you holding up?"

"Just fine, Commissioner." It had been a quiet, sad week at the precinct. Even as the men and women around him had shared their grief, however, he had seen them rally as the NYPD began to turn up the heat on Los Lourdes, and his chest had swelled with pride. "We're getting through it, you know?"

"I do."

"How's Jamie holding up, sir?" The youngest Reagan had never been far from his thoughts that week. He knew the kid would be okay; he was resilient, with a level head on his shoulders and the rock-solid examples of his pop and older brother to lean on. Still, losing a partner was never an easy thing. Especially the way that Jamie had lost Vinny.

Renzulli had been forced to bat the memories away as Frank spoke. "He's all right. I'm wondering if you can do me a favor, though, Sergeant."

"Of course."

"The Cruz family has invited my family to join them tomorrow morning during the private visitation, but my task force has a meeting in the morning regarding the next steps in our... investigation into the activity in Bitterman. My detail won't be able to get there until later in the morning, and I believe Danny and Erin were going to pay their respects then as well." There was a pause, and Renzulli could almost see Frank taking a moment to rub at his forehead. Renzulli pressed his lips together in sympathy. The coverage of Vinny's death, and the escalating violence in Bitterman, was playing out on a national level now; he'd caught a glimpse of Vinny's goofy NYPD photo on CNN the night before, taken his first day on the force. Vinny had always looked a little red-eyed in that image to Renzulli's assessing gaze, and he wondered if the kid hadn't tied a few on in celebration the night before. Now the stupid picture was all over the world.

"Sergeant, I know you're going to spend some time at the wake tomorrow," the commissioner continued. "But I was wondering if you might be willing to arrive early to accompany Jamie. I'd rather he have a chance to pay his respects before the crowd builds too much, or before the crowd from the 12th arrives. Besides, I attract too much media where I go and I don't want him getting caught up in any more of that than necessary."

"Yes, sir." Renzulli hesitated.

"What's on your mind?"

"Sir, I just… I was wondering if that's what Jamie wants?" Despite having a PC for a pop, every one of the Reagan kids was a notorious hardhead and independent as a week-old mule. Renzulli didn't exactly chat with the commissioner on a regular basis, particularly over his parenting techniques, but he couldn't ever remember him arranging a schedule for one of his kids.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "What's he said to you?"

"Well, that's just the thing, sir. I've talked to him a few times but he hasn't really said much."

The commissioner sighed. "Same here, actually. The family's been checking in on him. I think he's still in shock. He's been doing a lot of walking this week."

"Sir?"

"Jamie's always wandered when he's been stressed or had something on his mind. It used to drive his mother crazy, especially since he would go out at all hours of the night. He's been doing it this week, and... well, if I can't be there with him right now, I'd like someone to be. I think he might benefit from a guiding hand."

Renzulli blinked. "Have you had a tail on him, sir?"

A pause. "I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation."

He stifled a laugh. "I can't believe he didn't spot it."

"The fact that he didn't tells me all I need to know. I'll make sure he's there tomorrow by eight. I just… I want him to have someone with him. And if it can't be family, I'd very much like it to be you."

Renzulli swallowed, oddly touched. "I understand. I'd be honored, sir."

"I appreciate your help, Sergeant."

"Anytime, sir."

And so Renzulli waited in the spilled sunlight of a beautiful Saturday morning. He'd seen the Cruz family arrive about ten minutes before, accompanied by a small group of city officials and NYPD chiefs, and he was glad Jamie wouldn't be there for those emotional first moments. Ten minutes later, he watched as an NYPD patrol car pulled up near Torrezolli's front entrance. The cop behind the wheel said something to his passenger, clapping him on the shoulder, and Renzulli walked over as Jamie Reagan stepped out, straightening his tie as he did so. Renzulli gave him a quick assessment, sweeping him head to toe. He looked flawless, his dress uniform pressed, but his eyes were tired and haunted. "Kid," Renzulli said, and offered him a hand. Jamie shook it without hesitation. "You're lucky they let you ride up front."

Jamie smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I appreciate your being here, Sergeant."

"Your pop gave you the scoop, huh?" That surprised him a bit.

"Well, most of my family is tied up with the investigation. I think I'm the only one with any flexibility in my schedule. So." He looked at the street, squinting at the television trucks across the road.

Renzulli looked at him keenly. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

"Of course I am." His eyes wandered up the branches of a nearby tree.

"Do you even know _where_ you are right now, kid?"

Jamie's eyes snapped to his, annoyed. "I'm at my partner's visitation."

"Yeah," Renzulli said. "Physically, at least."

Jamie looked at the ground next. Renzulli saw the muscles in his jaw clench, relax. "What more do you want from me?"

"Just wondering where your head's at." He had seen this before, too many times.

For the first time since stepping out of the car, Jamie's eyes turned to the funeral home. "Let's get this over with," he said, and moved forward without a moment's hesitation.

Renzulli sighed and followed.

)()()()()()()(

They hadn't even gotten beyond the funeral home's main lobby before it started.

A young woman was wrapped in the arms of an older man just inside the main doors. They were both sobbing openly. The woman was wearing a giant button with Vinny's face on it, printed with his name and what appeared to be his dates of birth and death. It wasn't the NYPD stock photo this time, but what looked like a family picture… Christmas morning, maybe, or taken from around the Thanksgiving table. Renzulli wasn't sure if Jamie saw it or not, but the kid kept moving and so Renzulli did, too. Next, they had to dodge a man with a grim face, carrying a huge floral spray of white roses draped with baby's breath.

Jamie stopped, allowing the man to move in front of him. Renzulli stepped in close to his side. "Good?"

Jamie was looking left and right. He seemed outwardly calm, his face emotionless, but Renzulli was starting to get a bizarre, edgy vibe off him that had his senses on red alert. "Which way?" Jamie asked.

"C'mon." Renzulli moved forward toward the end of the hall, closing in on a soft spin of noise emanating from a large doorway to the right. Jamie followed, soundless at his side. Jamie didn't turn his head even as they moved past small clusters of people from NYPD headquarters and the mayor's office; from some of Governor's Cuomo's detail and big shots from the city chamber. The people who looked their way latched onto Jamie and whispered about him to their colleagues; of course they did, because everyone knew the commissioner and everyone knew this story, another tragedy in the long Reagan legacy of disasters. Renzulli looked back at them coolly, staying tight against Jamie's side, but Jamie never blinked. He stayed silent, and he stayed steady, right until they walked into the room.

Jamie stopped just inside and Renzulli did, too, taking in the setting with a swallow. Flowers were everywhere, hues of yellow and white and blue, and the smell was honey-sweet and overwhelming. People were everywhere, too, friends and family and dignitaries, some talking softly as those in the hall had been, others caught up in long embraces. The thickest knot of people were huddled at the side of a mahogany coffin on the far side of the room, which, Renzulli noted with a sinking stomach, was open. He couldn't see inside it for the people standing there, but the foot was draped in the NYPD's flag of white, blue and green, and a huge spray of red roses adorned the top.

Jamie turned his head toward Renzulli. He leaned in towards the kid immediately. "It's open," Jamie said.

"Yeah." He wasn't sure what else to say.

"I didn't…" Jamie swallowed.

"I'll go with you, kid. If you want. We've gotta do what we've gotta do."

"Go first," Jamie said. "I'll follow you."

Renzulli nodded, then moved forward slowly, respectfully, toward the casket. He shook a few hands along the way, said a few hellos. He didn't know the family well at all, but they seemed to recognize the uniform, at least, or perhaps the 12th precinct pin on his collar.

A young man with burly shoulders approached. He looked weary, but smiled. Vinny's smile. "Sergeant? I'm Tommy Cruz, Vinnie's brother."

Renzulli shook his hand. "Good to meet you, Tommy. I wish the circumstances were better. I'm very, very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Tommy's eyes went over Renzulli's shoulder.

Renzulli stepped aside slightly. "Tommy, this is Officer Jamison Reagan, Vinny's partner. Jamie, this is—"

"Tommy," Jamie said, and reached out his hand. He was, instead, pulled into a tight hug that clearly caught him off-guard.

Tommy squeezed him hard, and long, almost lifting him off the ground. Renzulli realized after a beat that Tommy was whispering something into Jamie's ear, quick and intense. Tommy released Jamie a moment later, and Jamie stepped back. Tommy laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it, then suddenly moved away. His face was beginning to crumble, his composure slipping.

Renzulli looked quickly at Jamie. The kid's face was impassive.

Renzulli swallowed, and turned to the casket. A path had opened for them now, as if Tommy was the official gatekeeper to his brother's body.

Vinny looked about as good as anybody dead and in a coffin, Renzulli figured as he stepped up to pay his respects. The uniform looked great on him, and his posthumous Medal of Honor was sparkling, lime green and gold against the navy jacket. He would be proud, Renzulli thought, and he let that emotion buoy him up so as not to think about the kid, the _kid_, happy-go-lucky Vinny Cruz, suave as the day was long but with a good and generous heart, lying dead in a coffin before him.

Renzulli forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. Vinny actually looked like himself, which was more than Renzulli could say for a lot of the mortuary work he'd seen done over the years. He had barely recognized his own father at the man's wake years ago (although Papa Renzulli drinking himself to death might have had something to do with that), but Vinny looked good. Almost too good. As in, not-even-dead good.

But facts were facts, and the body was turned in such a way that he couldn't see the wound in Vinny's neck (but God knew he could see it in his memory, now and forever), and so he offered up a quick, silent prayer and saluted. Then he stepped aside, praying next that Reagan was indeed still behind him and hadn't bolted at the first sight of his partner's body.

Renzulli knew a second later that he never should have doubted. Jamie stepped up smoothly into the space he had left, staring down into the casket. His eyes were a little red at the edges, a little tight, but they remained dry. No one around them seemed to be particularly drawn to the sight of Jamie stepping up to the side of his partner, and he wondered belatedly if anyone even knew the story of how Renzulli had found them in that quad together; of everything Jamie had tried to do to save his partner's life.

They probably didn't, he realized. They would be watching if they did.

But Renzulli was watching, just as he had that day not even a week before, and he saw Jamie grasp the edge of the casket with hands that were shaking, just a little, like leafs touched by a breeze. "I didn't think he would look like this," Jamie whispered. "It looks like I can talk to him."

"You _can_ talk to him, kid," Renzulli replied softly.

Jamie's eyes never left Vinny's face. "Not anymore," he said quietly. And Jamie saluted his partner, face stoic, moments crisp and smooth.

Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Renzulli went after him, trying to hurry without hurrying, and reflected as he went that it was probably a good thing that nobody was watching, because they would probably wonder what the hell was going on. Sort of like he was wondering what the hell was going on.

He finally got hold of Jamie near the front doors. He grabbed the kid's right bicep, and it took him a breath longer than it should've to figure out why the kid flinched. He released him instantly when he remembered. "Shit – sorry, Jamie. What are you doing?"

"I need to go." His eyes were on the doors. "I need some air."

"Well, you ain't going anywhere without me." Renzulli pushed open the doors, following Jamie through. The kid seemed to know where he was going, and he followed as Jamie weaved his way expertly through the growing crowd, head tucked low. Renzulli followed him down the sidewalk, around the corner, and half a block further to the door of a sleepy café, the scent of oven-roasted coffee drifting out of the open front door and wrapping around them like an embrace. Jamie walked in as though he'd been there before, and a few moments later they were parked unobtrusively in a booth near the back, their hands wrapped around disposable cups of the warm brew.

Renzulli dumped in two packets of sugar and stirred slowly, his eyes on Jamie. "So how do you know this place?"

Jamie tossed his hat carelessly onto the table, leaning back with a sigh. "Used to come here a lot on my days off. Not too far from home. Good place to read."

Renzulli watched him carefully, trying to put the pieces together. "Did you come here with Vinny?"

Jamie snorted. "Are you kidding? Vinny wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. 'Skin and I'm in.' That was his motto."

Renzulli leaned forward. "Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on. Thanks for coming with me this morning." He took a slow sip of the coffee, his gaze wandering vaguely.

"Are you going back?"

"Where?"

"Where." Renzulli shook his head. "To the _funeral home_, Jamie."

"Why should I?"

He hesitated. "You're his partner."

"Not anymore."

Those words again. "Kid, he's always gonna be your partner."

"He's dead, Sarge." Jamie looked at him levelly over his cup. "He can't be my partner if he's dead."

Renzulli's eyes narrowed, but inspiration struck him suddenly. If there was anyone ideally suited for pulling a younger brother out of a funk, it was an older brother. "Have you talked to Danny at all, kid?"

"Yeah." Jamie set the cup down carefully. "You know what he told me? 'Lean on your partner, Jamie. That's how you get through this.'"

Renzulli's brow furrowed. "He told you…?"

"After the girl committed suicide and killed her baby." Jamie's fingers brushed across the surface of the old table, his fingertips finding the pattern of the wood grain, the gouges from time. "He told me I had to get through it with Vinny. Shared experience and all that."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say.

"I'm just taking one day at a time now, Sarge."

Renzulli nodded, watching him. "The precinct commander heard from your shrink."

"Not my shrink. The department's shrink."

"Right. Well, you're cleared to start back to work after the funeral."

"Great."

"Do you even want to come back?"

Jamie frowned. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I'm trying to figure you out." He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting to control his temper. "You're not making it easy, kid."

"Well, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine." Jamie sipped at his coffee again.

"Yeah? 'Cause you don't look fine."

Jamie glared at him, then thunked the cup down so hard a little coffee sloshed over the side. "Tell me how I'm supposed to look. Tell me how I'm supposed to _act_, Sarge. I had a little practice when my brother died, but the only difference was, I wasn't _there_ when he got gunned down. I was this time. And I don't know how I'm supposed to act. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I don't even know if I _can_ feel anymore, because the only time I feel anything is when I do this—" He made a fist out of his left hand and struck himself, hard, right underneath his collar bone in the place the bullet had hit, and Renzulli winced for him. "And even then, it doesn't last." Jamie's voice cracked a little, and he looked back down at the table's surface.

"Kid," Renzulli sighed. "You're going through something nobody goes through, you understand that? You've already lost a brother to this job, and now this? There's no playbook, you understand? However you get through it is the right way to go."

"So stop asking me if I'm okay! Because you know I'm not."

Renzulli nodded again, slowly. "Nobody could be."

"And stop asking me where my head is, because I don't know." He tangled his hands together on the table and glared at them.

"You know I just want to help, kid," Renzulli said softly. "That's all anybody wants."

"I appreciate that. But there's nothing you can do, Sarge. The only person who could've done anything at all was me, and I screwed that up, so here we are."

"You didn't screw anything up, Jamie."

"I could've seen the shooter on the roof."

"You had a thousand places to be watching when that guy took his shot. You didn't see him? That was bad luck and nothing else. You were a hundred times more likely to take fire from the windows than the roof, and you know that. They _teach_ that, Jamie. You did exactly what you were supposed to do."

Jamie stared him down. "I could have seen the shooter on the roof," he said slowly, deliberately.

Renzulli sighed. "Yes, you could've. And you could've seen the bullet coming at you instead of getting knocked down by it first."

"I could've warned Vinny. I could've drawn—"

"Jamie, nothing you did or didn't do in that moment was going to change anything. You don't think I wish I could go back, too? I was there, kid! And I hate everything that happened, but I'm not going to torture myself because I know there was nothing I could do. And you shouldn't torture yourself either."

Jamie sighed, long and dry. "Even if there was absolutely nothing I could do—"

"Which there wasn't."

"Even then," Jamie said. "He was my partner. And he's dead and I'm alive, and that's wrong."

Renzulli hesitated. "What did Tommy say to you in there? When he hugged you?"

Jamie's smile was humorless. "He said, 'Thank you for being there. Thank you for being with him.'"

Renzulli slumped in his seat. Again, he didn't know what else to say.

Jamie abandoned his coffee cup for his hat, running his hand across the top. "Is it normal, Sarge? Not to feel anything at all?"

"Like I said, kid, there's no playbook for this."

"I barely even remember what happened. I dream about it, but it's like a nightmare, and I wake up and I'm not even sure what's real."

Renzulli tilted his head. "You did a good job at the scene. Held it together as well as anybody could. You did everything you could do."

Jamie frowned. "I don't remember."

"I do."

Jamie lifted his gaze to Renzulli's. "Someone told me you were there." He leaned back in his seat once again. "Tell me."

And Renzulli did.

)()()()()()()(

"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame… darlin', you give love a bad name…" Renzulli sang. He had a grin a mile wide plastered on his face, not necessarily because he was the world's best singer, but because of the bizarre expression on the face of the rookie riding shotgun. "Hey, c'mon, kid. Don't tell me you don't know Bon Jovi."

"That was Bon Jovi?" The kid was a fresh boot out of academy, with a gangly frame and wide eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He was assigned to the 15th precinct normally, but they'd had a couple of T.O.s call in sick for the weekend and this particular rookie had been trusted to Renzulli's capable hands for the shift. He didn't mind; it was actually nice to get out from behind the desk for a change, and he always appreciated the opportunity to show a newbie the ropes. This kid seemed to have a good head on his shoulders, although he needed to work a little on his presence. Not to mention his taste in music.

"How old did you say you are? Twenty-three?" Renzulli shook his head. "How could you have possibly made it this far in life without being able to recognize Bon Jovi?"

"I know Bon Jovi. That just didn't sound anything like him."

Renzulli chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, I'd love to hear your dulcet tones, kid. Don't knock the pipes. I have a mean voice for jazz."

The kid – his name was Pierce Benning, which Renzulli also found hilarious – shrugged. "I was always more into computers myself."

Renzulli was about to share how that didn't surprise him in the least when their radio crackled. "12-Sergeant, please respond – 12-George requesting 10-85 in the area of Driggs Avenue and Bedford Street, Bitterman Housing Project. 10-10, officers in pursuit and requesting assistance."

"Acknowledge," Renzulli ordered, reaching down to flip on the lights and sirens.

Pierce fumbled the receiver, looking somewhat bug-eyed at the abrupt change of pace. "Uh, 12-Sergeant acknowledged," he said. "Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah, we're just a couple of blocks away."

"No, I mean… that's where the woman killed herself with the baby, right?"

"Right. Major trouble spot for the 12th. Did you hear who placed the call? 12-George? Those officers were first responders on the call with the woman." Renzulli smiled a little, despite himself. "One of them's Jamie Reagan, my old boot. Great kid. Damn fine officer, too. You'll have to meet him."

Pierce was gripping the door handle with one hand and the dash with the other as Renzulli threw the squad car around a sharp curve at almost 40 miles an hour. "Think we'll live long enough for that?"

"12-Sergeant, be advised 10-85 now 10-13, officers requesting assistance for shots fired." The radio burped, then pealed a tone that made Pierce's face go a shade paler than it already was. "Attention all units, code three on this channel – shots fired at Driggs and Bedford, Bitterman Housing Project. 10-13. 911 callers reporting multiple officers down on scene. Proceed with extreme caution."

Renzulli's skin went cold. The temperature in the car felt as though it had suddenly plummeted twenty degrees. A single thought crowded all others out of his mind.

_Jamie._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Okay, sorry to leave you dangling, but that's all this tired author has time for in this week's episode! And she has to go see "Star Trek: Into Darkness" tonight, so there's that, too. :) Next week, we'll pick up where this left off - and yes, I will absolutely be addressing the situation between Frank and Jamie. If you enjoyed the story, please let me know – I love talking Blue Bloods with fellow fans. See you soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note:** Happy Blue Bloods Friday again! Today, please enjoy part five of "While the Heart Beats." Be advised that this story contains spoilers for episodes 3x22, "The Bitter End," and 3x23, "This Way Out." I'm also reserving the right to tweak the posting schedule for this story. Explanation for that is at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

_**Last time...**_

"12-Sergeant, be advised 10-85 now 10-13, officers requesting assistance for shots fired." The radio burped, then pealed a tone that made Pierce's face go a shade paler than it already was. "Attention all units, code three on this channel – shots fired at Driggs and Bedford, Bitterman Housing Project. 10-13. 911 callers reporting multiple officers down on scene. Proceed with extreme caution."

Renzulli's skin went cold. The temperature in the car felt as though it had suddenly plummeted twenty degrees. A single thought crowded all others out of his mind.

_Jamie._

)()()()()()()()()()(

_**Now...**_

For the life of him, Anthony Renzulli would never understand how Reagans could attract trouble the way they did.

As far as he was concerned, there were plenty of sure things in life. His wife, for example, would never be on the phone with her sister in Utica for less than two hours. A hot dog would never taste better than when he ate it, piping hot and loaded with relish and mustard, in a splash of sunlight on opening day at Yankee Stadium. Trash day would never fail to catch him by surprise despite having been on the same day of the week for years, which meant he would grumble through his first hour off tour on Wednesdays while hauling three bags of garbage down four flights of stairs.

But the most certain thing of all?

Anybody in the NYPD with the last name of Reagan was bound to have more drama in a week than he would have in a year.

He'd been around long enough to know about the problems ol' Henry Reagan had had, back in the day, and the current commissioner always seemed to have his hands full. It was the kids, though, who caught the worst of it. Erin had gotten herself into plenty of sticky situations, in and out of the courtroom. Danny was a magnet for high-profile cases and the trouble that came with them. Even as a rookie, Joe had found himself right in the middle of the most dangerous assignments and riskiest patrols, despite Renzulli's best efforts to keep him shielded. In true Reagan fashion, Joe had wanted no part of that.

And then there was Jamie.

Renzulli had been on the force twenty-two years and he'd never gotten so much as a sprained ankle. But paired with Jamie Reagan, he'd been thrown down a flight of marble stairs and nearly cracked his head open. Twenty-two years, and he'd never fired his weapon outside of the training range. Jamie had fired his at least twice already in his three years, once to stop a kidnapping and later to protect a group of school kids from a gunman in Washington Square Park. Then there was the little matter of the Honorable Mention, Jamie's commendation (and the fourth-highest honor in the NYPD, by the way) for rescuing a baby out of an apartment building. Renzulli had never gotten anything like that before, not even close, but now it was on his breast bar just above his shield and the kicker was he didn't even deserve it - he only took credit for Jamie's bravery because, unbeknownst to him, the kid had already been working a dangerous undercover assignment at the time and couldn't risk the public recognition.

He didn't want anyone to get him wrong. He thought the world of the Reagans; loved the fact that they seemed to consider him part of their family. It was just hard to believe how much of their lives played out on a dramatic, public scale. He'd asked Jamie about it once, on a snowy January evening as they'd huddled in the squad car with their hands near the heater vents, trying to thaw out in between rounds of street patrol. "What is it with your family, anyway?" Renzulli had demanded. "There's always at least one of you on the front page every week. How does that even happen?"

Jamie had at least had the good grace to look thoughtful about the question, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together briskly before he replied. "The New Yorker did a piece on us right after I was accepted into the academy."

"I remember." That had happened while Danny was still at the 12th precinct. They would have put copies everywhere and teased him mercilessly over it had Joe's death not been such a fresh wound. "I guess that's par for the course for a Reagan, huh?"

"We go back generations with the NYPD. You know that. The media loves it. It's unusual enough to have three brothers wear the shield, not to mention a sister who's an ADA, a dad who's the commissioner, a grandfather-"

"I get it, I get it," Renzulli interrupted. He knew the Reagan bios about as well as anybody. "You guys gonna write a book anytime soon?"

Jamie's eyes rolled. "Not if I have anything to do with it. Definitely not if my dad has anything to do with it. He hates publicity. Thinks it gets in the way of the work."

"He's right."

Jamie nodded. "It's Merton's principle, you know."

"Merton's principle," Renzulli repeated dryly. "Y'know, there's only one of us in this car who went to Harvard, Harvard."

Jamie grinned. "Robert Merton. Self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Right." He actually had no idea what the kid was talking about, but if he knew Jamie Reagan like he thought he knew Jamie Reagan...

Jamie leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "Have you ever had a bad day and a really crappy night's sleep, and you woke up and said, 'This day is going to suck,' and then it did?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Self-fulfilling prophecy. It just means that you decided the day was going to be bad, and so you made it be that way. The prophecy fulfilled itself."

"And this has what to do with you?"

"I just wonder if that's what happened to us, sometimes. People get so wound up over the name, y'know? Maybe there's nothing special about us at all. People just expect us to be great and so they give us big cases; put us in positions of power. They push greatness on us whether we deserve it or not."

Renzulli frowned over at him. "Well, first of all, kid, I only caught a few parts of that, but whatever." Renzulli leaned forward to fiddle with the temperature switch on the heater. "People expect great things out of Reagans. Okay, sure. But, y'know, sometimes that happens not because of reputation, or legacy. Sometimes it's because you really are good at what you do."

"Why Sarge." Jamie grinned cheekily at him. "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. Just trying to make sure I don't get dragged to the circus along with you and your pop and the rest of the family."

Jamie leaned forward himself, to look out the windshield toward the halo of light cast by the streetlamp. The snow was falling thick and silent. "No clowns or elephants around here tonight."

"Well, let's go make our own fun, then." Renzulli grabbed his door handle. "C'mon, time's a'wastin'."

Good kid, that Jamie Reagan. He could've turned out to be a real asshole what with the privileged upbringing and all, but he was all right. Wore the Reagan name well. Pretty damn good cop, too, and Renzulli was sure that whatever trouble might find the kid, Reagan name or not, he could handle himself with the best of them.

Renzulli liked to think that maybe, just maybe, he could take a tiny bit of credit for that.

"Holy shit, Sergeant." Officer Pierce Benning, Renzulli's temporary boot out of the 15th, was gripping the dashboard in one hand and the doorframe with the other. His words yanked Renzulli back into the moment, and he glanced quickly at the kid. Pierce's face had gone chalk white and he was staring at the radio system like it was spitting out cockroaches. "Holy _shit._"

"Hang on," Renzulli replied tersely. His hands were wrapped impossibly tight around the steering wheel, and he pushed the squad car as hard as he dared, gunning it around slowing traffic, managing only the thinnest shreds of control to maneuver his way through red traffic lights and around oblivious pedestrians. His mind was racing almost as fast as the car.

_Shots fired in Bitterman. Jesus, they're escalating this crap way past a few glass bottles._

Even in the privacy of his own thoughts, he couldn't think about the call. He wouldn't let himself think about what a 10-13 meant, or officers down, or what the hell kind of scene he was racing into. The sudden dump of adrenaline in his veins, causing his heart to stutter and his hands to shake, was reminder enough.

"Can you trust those 911 reports?" Pierce asked. "I mean, are those usually accurate? Do people even know what they're looking at?"

Renzulli didn't have time to answer. He leaned over to snatch the radio receiver. "Central, 12-Sergeant en route. Is 12-George communicating with you?" he snapped into the fray of communication. He knew he had no business leaping into the emergency traffic, but for this, he would ignore protocol.

To his surprise, the answer came quickly. "Responding units, be advised - officers involved on scene are unresponsive. Code three remains in effect. 10-46; ambulance ETA four minutes."

"Dammit." He threw the receiver in the general direction of its cradle, and Pierce proved himself useful for something as he managed to snatch it before it fell. "We gotta get there. Now."

"Okay, so... when we do..." Pierce's voice faltered.

Renzulli cut him another quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. "Just stay behind me. Stay close. Watch my back and protect yourself. They just called a 10-46 so there's gonna be cops all over the place. Make sure you stay with me at all times, got it?"

Pierce's eyes, already big on a normal day, looked halfway out of their sockets. "Do I need to pull my gun?"

"Do you need to- _yes_, you need to pull your gun. How long have you been out of Academy, for cryin' out loud?"

"I've never responded to anything like this," he protested, and flinched involuntarily as Renzulli narrowly avoided a bright red Mazda. "I've never even seen a felony arrest."

"Just get ready. And be ready to do exactly what I say, you understand?"

"Yes sir."

Renzulli brought the squad car in hot next to the western buildings of the Bitterman Housing Project. The massive structures fit together like Lego blocks, this particular section framing the sea of white concrete that was the main quad. He knew the place mostly for its drug activity and copious trash, although he'd been by before in the summer when the boys would get a good pickup basketball game going and life in Bitterman seemed almost normal.

There was nothing in the area save a few squat, sad little landscaping bushes and a garbage can overflowing with styrofoam cups and crumpled Wendy's wrappers. No ambulances yet, and no other first responders either. "12-Sergeant on scene," he spat into the radio, then threw the car out of gear and bailed out, leaving the lights flashing and the siren pealing. Later, he wouldn't even recall drawing his weapon, but as he moved low and fast around the front of the car, his gun was solid and reassuring in his hands. Instinct was guiding him and he let it take over with no small measure of relief. He went for the narrow entrance between buildings that fed back to the main quad and saw Pierce fall in beside him, a slim shadow at his side. "Stay with me," he hissed, and Pierce nodded in response.

Renzulli moved quickly to the entrance of the quad, steeling himself, but stopped short. He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting to find - a gang of raging young men, perhaps, brandishing weapons, or people screaming and running for safety with small children clutched to their chests. He thought he might still be able to catch the stench of gunpowder in the air, or see his guys, Jamie and Vinny. His anxious gaze swept the areas of the quad he could see from his vantage point, looking for anything and everything, including sprawled bodies, but there was...

...there was nothing.

The quad was silent, and devoid of even a semblance of life. If it weren't for the collection of soiled newspapers that had been left in a soggy pile in one corner of the common space or the abandoned basketballs on the court, he would think this place was abandoned. He didn't see a damn soul.

A sudden spin of movement on the opposite side of the quad grabbed his attention, and he instinctively took one hand off his weapon, putting out the free arm to stop Pierce from raising his gun at the two officers who were emerging, their stance similarly defensive. Quickly Pierce lowered his weapon, skin flushing, but Renzulli had no time for that. His eyes were on the officers - a portly, twenty-year vet named Gordon and his partner, Doyle; he recognized them even from the distance - and as he moved out into the quad, trying to look everywhere at once and still pulling in the details of the scene, it all suddenly began to take shape around him.

He saw the weapon first, one of their own, lying unsecured on the pavement. He saw a few shells next, glimmering gold in the late afternoon light.

And he saw blood.

It was smeared here and puddled there but it was fresh, and garish red against the white grit of the concrete. There was a wall nearby, part of a ramp that led down into the center of the quad, and he saw chunks of it missing, blown out by bullets.

"Jesus," Pierce breathed in his ear.

Gordon and Doyle had entered from the quad's opposite side, and thus they could see none of the evidence from their angle. But suddenly, Gordon darted forward, swearing a blue streak as he dove low towards something on the ground, just around the corner from Renzulli's line of sight. Doyle went low at the same moment, weapon suddenly aiming toward the rooftops as he keyed his shoulder-mounted radio with his free hand. "Central, be advised we can confirm officers down on scene. I've identified two, possibly three hostiles on roof. Be advised, scene is hot!"

Renzulli didn't think. Not for a moment. Moving still on instinct, he darted wide around the shells and blood, Pierce glued to his side. "C'mon, get to cover," he said, pushing the kid ahead of him as they ducked into the small bit of cover where the other officers were.

Thus, he was completely unprepared for where his eyes landed as he came around that shallow corner.

Jamie Reagan was sitting back against the wall, his body still, his eyes glazed. Smeared blood on his mouth and chin was a shock of red against his colorless face.

For one horrific, endless second, Renzulli thought he was dead.

But Gordon was crouching in front of him, and had taken Jamie's face in both his hands; he was talking to him urgently, as if there was some sliver of soul left to reach for, and a heartbeat later Renzulli realized why.

Jamie was clutching Vinny's limp body in his arms.

* * *

"_If there's no one beside you  
__When your soul embarks  
__Then I'll follow you into the dark..."  
_- Gavin Mikhail, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" (cover)

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm really sorry I don't have more for you this week. I suck. This is fact. Seriously, I had intended for this chapter to cover a lot more territory for you all, but I've had a heck of a week and this, such as it is, is absolutely all I've been able to get done. So, I'll try to post again in the week ahead (a special Memorial Day update, perhaps?) to finish this scene off, at least, and get back on schedule. Your comments are welcomed, appreciated, and will receive replies (eventually! Probably not tonight though; just keeping it real. LOL, my suck quotient grows...). Thank you very much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note:** Guys, I TOLD you that I suck. You should not be surprised that I am slightly off-kilter with my posting schedule. :) Still, I really want to try and stick to my plan, which is why I'm typing this on a plane right now at 31,000 feet and will be posting an update from my undisclosed international location. Family Vacation #1 is underway to the tropics, and I am lucky that I was allowed to bring the laptop, LOL.

I will warn you that this chapter contains some graphic depiction of violence and injuries, so be aware of that. Possibly some mild language too. Also, this was written in one pass so I apologize in advance for any typos or goofs. I'll fix them when I'm back in the States next week and will try to bring you another chapter then as well. :) With no further ado, thanks for your patience and away we go...

* * *

"_I'm at war with the world and they try to pull me into the dark  
__I struggle to find my faith as I'm slipping from your arms  
__It's getting harder to stay awake  
__And my strength is fading fast  
__You breathe into me at last..."  
_- Skillet, "Awake and Alive"

_**Last time...**_

Renzulli didn't think. Not for a moment. Moving still on instinct, he darted wide around the shells and blood, Pierce glued to his side. "C'mon, get to cover," he said, pushing the kid ahead of him as they ducked into the small bit of shelter where the other officers were.

Thus, he was completely unprepared for where his eyes landed as he came around that shallow corner.

Jamie Reagan was sitting back against the wall, his body still, his eyes glazed. Smeared blood on his mouth and chin was a shock of red against his colorless face.

For one horrific, endless second, Renzulli thought he was dead.

But Gordon was crouching in front of him, and had taken Jamie's face in both his hands; he was talking to him urgently, as if there was some sliver of soul left to reach for, and a heartbeat later Renzulli realized why.

Jamie was clutching Vinny's limp body in his arms.

)()()()()()()()()()(

_**Now...**_

When Renzulli himself had been a rookie (so many, many years ago), he had worried sometimes whether his higher reasoning skills - or lack thereof - would get in the way of his being able to do the job. He wasn't an idiot, not by any means, but school had never done much for him. He had wondered sometimes, lying in bed and staring at the dark ceiling somewhere above, if pure heart and desire and a decent dose of common sense was really enough to get such an important job done.

"Christ almighty, Renzulli, you worry too much," his training officer had laughed. "A cop only needs three things - open eyes, quick feet, good aim. All the rest takes care of itself."

It had taken a few years before he really got his feet under him as an officer, but once he was comfortable in the skin of the NYPD uniform Renzulli had come to appreciate the advice. He tried to impart it to his own rookies when he became a training officer years later. _You can't walk a beat from inside a patrol car. Get out; talk to people. Let them talk to you. Listen. Hear. And when you need to, act._

So when Renzulli saw Jamie and Vinny together on the ground, frozen still in that moment of impossible agony, he didn't reason and he sure as hell didn't think.

He _moved._

Instinct, honed in him over every one of his twenty-two years on the job, cranked into overdrive as he lurched forward towards them. An unexpected surge of emotion flooded his chest; he recognized it then as fear, but later would understand the protectiveness, too. And perhaps that made sense; these were his boys, after all. Beside him, Gordon was continuing his litany, filling the still and silent air with words that skated across Renzulli's consciousness like water on glass. "Reagan, man, hey Reagan, we're here, okay? We need to see your partner so we can take care of him. Okay? You hear me, Reagan?"

Renzulli went to the ground and hit flush on both knees, bone cracking against pavement. He felt the impact to his teeth. "Kid," he gasped. He could barely find breath for the words; his lungs were as tight as if he'd been kicked in the chest.

Jamie looked even worse up close. The blood on his face was vivid, like a rash, and his mouth was stained with it, like he had sucked down a cherry snow cone too fast. His eyes were wide open but eerily vacant, as though his soul had been violently shaken loose. Renzulli saw too that Jamie's arms were locked around Vinny, cradling the other man against his shoulder, and as alarming as Jamie's condition was, Vinny lying still (still, _so frickin' still_) in his lap was even worse. "Jamie," Renzulli managed, his heart sinking. He leaned forward, speaking right into Jamie's ear. "Give him to us, all right? Listen to me, kid. It's me, man. You gotta let him go."

As he spoke, Gordon released Jamie's face to grab at his hands, trying to pry his grip loose. He was working quickly, as behind them Doyle crouched with his gun drawn, eyes flying across the rooftop edges and hundreds of empty windows that stared down at them blankly. "Where is our backup?" Renzulli heard him snap into the radio. "We've got an officer down; where the hell's our backup?" As if in answer, Renzulli began to hear the sirens in the distance at that moment, an eerie harmony of wails growing ever stronger. Backup on the way, probably dozens and dozens of guys.

But none of this activity had shaken Jamie back to reality. Finding himself desperate to break through, Renzulli grabbed at Jamie's arm, intending to squeeze it reassuringly. _We're here, Jamie. Stand down._

The wetness that met his hand - hot, sticky - surprised him, and he looked closer. The shoulder and upper sleeve of Jamie's jacket were soaked through, and when Renzulli let go, his palm and the pads of his fingers were smeared generously with blood. "Jesus," he gasped, and whipped around to face Pierce, who was watching, bug-eyed, behind him. "You confirm! Two officers down!" he snapped, holding up two bloodied fingers for emphasis. The kid nodded rapid-fire, reaching for his shoulder-mounted radio.

Gordon was twisting at Jamie's hands now, almost frantic, trying to pry Vinny away from Jamie's grasp. _He's going to break fingers_, Renzulli realized in some distant part of his mind, and he rushed to help, pressing his own hand down over Jamie's to ease it away. Jamie's skin was cold as ice, but he ignored it, just as he ignored Jamie's empty eyes. Together with Gordon, they managed to pull Jamie's grip loose just enough, and Gordon was quick to take Vinny's weight as he fell away from Jamie's shoulder, tumbling loosely from Jamie's hold into Gordon's waiting arms.

Renzulli caught only a fleeting glimpse of Vinny's slack, blood-covered face before he dropped himself directly in front of Jamie, grasping his shoulders. "Kid, it's all right. Tell me where they got you." He was anxious to check him over for injuries, but pressing his hands into Jamie's shoulder and skating them down over his side was useless - blood was everywhere, and he had no idea whose was whose, or even which of them was hurt where.

"Sarge!" Gordon cried. His voice sounded panicked.

Renzulli twisted abruptly to peer over his shoulder, but the question he was about to ask died on his lips when he saw Gordon easing Vinny down onto the stained pavement, checking his breathing, checking his pulse. The motion was jostling Vinny's body, and Vinny's head rolled toward Renzulli.

Three things were impossible to miss.

Vinny was even bloodier than Jamie was.

Vinny had a hole the size of a golf ball torn in his throat.

Vinny's eyes were, mercifully, closed.

Renzulli's stomach began a slow roll, like a rising tide in the core of his belly, and he might have been sick right there had Pierce not beat him to it. Crouched just feet away from where Vinny's body had spilled, Pierce got a technicolor eyeful of the damage and twisted violently away, bowing low to the ground as he lost his lunch at the sight. Gordon completely ignored him, rushing to pull Vinny's head back around. "Quick, quick," he said, almost hysterically, and tilted Vinny's head back, sealing his mouth over Vinny's. A small trickle of blood oozed from the wound at the movement, but nothing more.

Renzulli didn't have a medical degree, but even he knew what it meant when gaping, awful wounds like that didn't bleed.

"I tried that already."

The voice was weak and shredded at the edges, but unmistakably-

"Jamie," Renzulli said, spinning back to him. "Jamie?"

Jamie hadn't moved from where he sat, slumped against the wall. His eyes still looked glazed and dead, but they had at least focused on Gordon now, who was frantically breathing for Vinny as the sirens' wails drew ever louder. "I tried that," he said again. It was almost impossible to hear him, and his face remained eerily still. "Didn't work."

Renzulli's hand found Jamie's shoulder, and he squeezed it reassuringly, blood or no. "Well, the EMTs are almost here, so we're gonna keep trying, okay? Tell me where you're hurt."

Jamie didn't reply. His eyes were on Vinny.

"Kid? Where are you hurt, huh? C'mon, Jamie."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna need more than that," Renzulli warned, as Pierce fell on his ass a few feet away, wiping his mouth against the back of a trembling hand. His eyes were on Vinny, too, and they were filled with horror.

The sirens screamed to a stop only yards away, and the sound was enormous now, filling every space in the quad and bouncing off the concrete, the wails careening into each other. They seemed to be making the sounds Jamie could not, but they did galvanize him a little. He turned his head, then leaned abruptly leaned forward, rolling shakily onto his hands and knees and nearly toppling over altogether. Renzulli grabbed at him to steady him. Jamie was leaning down towards Vinny, bending almost as close as Gordon. Renzulli watched as, without hesitation, Jamie reached out and laid his hand gently over the gash on Vinny's neck, and leaned down to whisper into his ear.

Renzulli was still staring when two EMTs rushed onto the scene, moving quick and low despite bulky equipment bags and a backboard balanced between them. A small but well-armed compliment of a half-dozen cops fanned out along with them, moving into the area with eyes intense and weapons drawn. As the officers pushed forward into the quad, intent on securing the area, the EMTs came skidding in next to Renzulli and were upon Vinny in an instant. "How long has he been down?" one asked aloud.

"At least five or ten minutes," Gordon replied, gasping it out between breaths.

Jamie drew back, and Renzulli tugged him clear as the EMTs began working on Vinny. Officers were beginning to pour in from everywhere, as if floodgates had been opened, and Renzulli paid them only the barest attention as they set up a defensive perimeter around them, around Vinny bloody and probably dead on the pavement; around Jamie, leaning heavily into Renzulli's side now; around Gordon and Pierce and Doyle, all watching helplessly. The second EMT fixed a mask over Vinny's face and began forcing air into his lungs with an AMBU bag. "We've got to go, now," he said sharply, and his partner nodded. "We need some hands!"

Willing officers moved quickly around Vinny and the EMTs. Gordon, Doyle and Pierce were among them as they slid a backboard underneath Vinny's limp body and transitioned him onto a stretcher. Renzulli remained where he was on the ground, with Jamie still slumped heavy into his shoulder. "Kid, c'mon," Renzulli said, shaking him a little, his concern beginning to grow. "Jamie, let's get you to the hospital, okay?"

"I'm fine, Sarge," he rasped.

"Uh-huh." Renzulli saw two more pairs of EMTs coming into the scene, and he motioned them over sharply. "I've got the second officer here," he hollered, and as they made a beeline for him, he turned back to Jamie, speaking the words softly into his hair. "Your ride's right here, kid. Vinny's going to the hospital and you're gonna be right behind him."

"No hospital," he muttered. "I don't need that."

"Actually, kid, I think you do." He nodded at the EMT who dropped down in front of him, reaching out for Jamie. Renzulli caught the man's eyes, lowering his voice. "I think he's in shock pretty bad. I don't know where he's hurt. Not all of the blood is his but..."

"We got it," the EMT said. He and his partner eased Jamie away from Renzulli, and he felt a sudden and unexpected pang of loss. He stayed close by as the EMTs fitted a neck brace on Jamie and stripped him down to his vest right there in the field, and Renzulli saw the bloody tears in his right arm and shoulder then; the blood on his skin; the impact of at least one bullet into the chest of his tac vest. His stomach rolled again, but he ignored it, forcing himself to stay close. The EMTs were firing questions at Jamie that he ignored. Finally, though, when they turned to prep the stretcher, Jamie's eyes found Renzulli's. Renzulli leaned in close as Jamie fumbled the oxygen mask off his face. "Sarge."

"Kid, leave that alone." He found Jamie's hand; grasped it tight. "You're in good hands, all right? These EMTs-"

"He's dead, Sarge." Jamie's gaze, so expressionless and empty before, was filled with a deep sadness now; a lilting pain and regret that seemed bottomless in his eyes.

Renzulli swallowed. "No. Not yet, he's not. The doctors-"

"Sarge," Jamie broke in, his voice cracking. "I'm not... I'm not asking."

Renzulli's heart sank. "I'm..." He swallowed again, his throat so dry the sides stuck together, and fumbled for Jamie's hand. "It's gonna be okay, kid."

Jamie looked at him, then closed his eyes as the EMTs and volunteer officers surged back around him to transport him to the ambulance. Renzulli allowed them to pull Jamie away, and he was left standing there in the middle of the shattered and bloodstained quad, the memory of Jamie's hand still ghosting across his own.

He could tell in the kid's eyes that he didn't believe, not for a second, that anything was going to be okay.

)()()()()()()(

Sitting opposite him in the booth of a small coffee shop in Brooklyn, Jamie slumped against the back of his seat, eyes fixed on the cold cup of coffee before him. A slant of warm, welcoming morning sun splashed across the aged grain of the booth and upon Jamie's dress hat, which he'd tossed on the table before Renzulli began his story. The sunlight was a lone bit of cheer stabbing into their solemn corner. "I don't remember any of that, Sarge."

"It happened," Renzulli replied. "Every word."

"I'm glad to know." Jamie glanced up, but didn't make eye contact. "I'm glad you and the other guys were there."

"What _do _ you remember?" he asked curiously.

Jamie hesitated, then took a deep swallow of the coffee. "About the shooting, I remember everything," he said quietly. "I remember what we had for lunch. I remember joking about the parking tickets we were going to give out on Bedford. And then we heard the woman screaming about her purse." Jamie shook his head. "I remember _everything_ - right up until, you know. But after he died..."

Jamie's voice faded away.

Renzulli swallowed hard, then brought his own into the painful, empty silence. "You, uh... they said you tried to give him CPR. That's why you had blood on your face. And then when you knew it was too late, you just hung onto him, and we found ya not long after that."

"Well," he said. "Thank you for being there. And for everything you tried to do."

Renzulli pressed his lips together to suppress the building sigh. "Kid... listen, okay? Just listen. I mean, you're not the only one who wishes he could've done more. I was your sergeant, you understand that? I was responsible for both of you out there. Hell, I trained you for two years. You don't know what it's like to hear those calls over the radio, kid. I knew it was the two of you. And I knew..." He stopped, surprised by the sudden swell of emotion in his throat, and forced himself to swallow. "I knew I had to get there. I knew I should've been there. I'm never gonna forgive myself for not being there."

Jamie watched him curiously. "But it's the job, Sarge."

"I know," he said honestly. "But sometimes... the job freakin' sucks, Reagan."

"Yeah," he replied quietly.

Renzulli watched him, taking in the bags under his eyes, the sunken cheeks. "What can I do now, kid? Just say it. Anything."

A flicker of amusement crossed Jamie's face, and he looked up with a smirk. For a moment, Renzulli caught a glimpse of his old partner, and hope surged in him. "Anything, Sarge?"

"Well, within limits," he grinned.

"Can we just sit here?" he asked. "Just for a while?"

"Sure, kid."

And together, in the silence with cold cups of coffee before them, they did.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. I don't think this is up to my usual standard but I'm flying to try and get something up, LOL. To the lady on American Airlines who sat next to me and read this entire thing over my shoulder as I was writing it, I expect a review, LOL. Once I'm back in NYC next week I'll absolutely get caught up with all PMs and reviews - can't wait to hear from you all on what you thought of this! I'm looking forward to checking out your feedback when I get back.

**Next week** - Jamie attends the funeral of his partner, Officer Vinny Cruz. And he won't leave after it's over. Why? Because Jamie Reagan needs to have a talk with God. Don't think for a second that it's going to be pretty.


	7. Chapter 7

**While the Heart Beats**

**Author's Note:** Apologies for being two days late with this update, everyone. To show my gratitude for your patience, you get not one but TWO special treats - an extra-long update below, and one special final chapter, because there's one more thing I want to do with the Reagan family before calling "While the Heart Beats" a wrap. Look for that chapter to be posted this Thursday, and I'll try to have part one of my next story, the two-part "Kingdom Come," ready soon after. I'm also going to try very hard to catch up on all of your kind messages and reviews this week.

So, this chapter tells the story of an NYPD funeral, and I think you'll find this update more descriptive and lost in that beautiful, solemn rite than most of what I normally do. I don't ever plan to write a funeral in one of my stories again, though, so I thought I would give it its due here. There are also plenty of religious overtones and frank discussions of spirituality. As this is a sensitive subject, I wouldn't have gone down this road if left to my own wacky devices, but Jamie was struggling with some mighty issues of faith in 3x23 that I wanted to respect and address in this story. So, be aware.

As always, this story contains spoilers for the season three finale of Blue Bloods. Enjoy!

* * *

In the silence of his bedroom sanctuary, alone for the first time since a hail of bullets flew seven days earlier at the Bitterman Housing Project, Frank Reagan leaned heavily on his bureau and looked himself in the eye.

A tired man stared back.

It had been a long week, this week that began with Jamie's breathless 10-85 call and was ending now with the funeral of Officer Vincent Cruz. It would have been bad enough had the pain and resulting problems been kept within the NYPD, as they had been three years earlier when Officer Michelle Martin was gunned down in the diamond district. As reprehensible as that crime had been, it was solved in short order and with little media attention beyond what was appropriate - the recognition of a hero cop who gave her life for the job. This, though, was something else entirely, as Cruz's death represented the fiery culmination of years of frustration, violence and poverty in the Bitterman projects. Bitterman had been an ugly bruise on the city for decades, and just as Frank had finally found the wherewithal to challenge it-

An officer dead. A cop shot down, and suddenly the pattern of violence in Bitterman that had led to Vinny's death leapt from the Post to the cover page of the Times to CNN and the cable channels, then to a lead story on CBS Nightly News and international attention. Garrett was being hammered 24/7, and Frank found himself under attack from every angle as well - city hall, state officials, the FBI, the press - even as he struggled to work the case and break open the Los Lourdes crime ring. And worst of all, Vinny Cruz had become a pseudo celebrity in that rush of attention, suddenly the poster child for violent inner-city gangs, and the death that had been needed for the avalanche of change to finally occur.

He deserved to be so much more than that.

So, it had been a busy week, juggling the Bitterman case with all the other myriad of business within the city, while fending off the Mayor's office at the same time. City Hall was pressing on him hard, and he had no answers for them - not yet, at least. He was absolutely confident that Danny and the other top detectives that his chief had put on the case would bust the crime ring wide open, but it would take a little time. On top of that, the wake had been even sadder than he imagined, teeming with Vinny's huge extended family and myriad of friends, and it had taken some effort to ensure that every need of the Cruz family was tended to. Frank's assistant chief in charge of protocol had been trying to get in front of him all week to run through the order of the funeral service, and he'd finally had to do it at the house at 9 p.m. the night before because Frank's schedule had been absolutely non-stop.

It was wearing him down. Frank could see the lines of exhaustion around his own eyes; the bags that had gathered there, and the weariness in the face that looked solemnly back in the mirror. But he couldn't stop. Not now, not ever - not until the job was done.

The funeral today would be the hardest. The Cruz family was Catholic, and Frank had offered them the full services of the Archdiocese of New York - the impressive domination of the massive St. Patrick's Cathedral in Midtown, the services of Archbishop Timothy Dolan - but they had politely refused. Vinny had been raised at the Church of Raphael the Archangel near his childhood home, and it was from that small church that he would be buried.

And so it was that Vinny Cruz would be remembered just blocks away from where his life was taken.

Frank refused to recognize the irony in that.

Earlier that day, in his office, he had finally gotten the full report from the scene, complete with the radio transmissions that the media was desperate for. The 911 calls of Bitterman residents reporting two officers shot had been released, but not the NYPD communications, and Frank had sat at his desk and listened. He kept his hands in his lap so his chiefs wouldn't see how his right hand clutched his left, knuckles white, to try and stop the shaking.

"_Attention all units, code three on this channel - shots fired at Driggs and Bedford, Bitterman Housing Project. 10-13. 911 callers reporting multiple officers down on scene. Proceed with extreme caution."_

"_Central, 12-Sergeant en route. Is 12-George communicating with you?"_

"_Responding units, be advised - officers involved on scene are unresponsive. Code three remains in effect. 10-46; ambulance ETA four minutes."_

"_Central, be advised we can confirm officers down on scene. I've identified two, possibly three hostiles on roof. Be advised, scene is hot!"_

"_Where is our backup? We've got an officer down; where the hell's our backup?"_

"_Central, Central - two officers down at Bitterman; repeating, two officers down..."_

Even now, the memories of those shocked, frantic calls made Frank's stomach shrink, and he swallowed hard before he straightened before the mirror in his bedroom, straightening his uniform and focusing on the shield, medals, buttons and stars. Everything needed to be precise for this day. There was no room for loose threads or disjointed thoughts. He needed to focus. Steel up. There were pressing matters to attend to.

Frank checked his uniform again; each bit of trim, each piece of brass. His mind was spinning, and he breathed deeply, evenly, in an attempt to quiet it.

Hate wasn't a word that Frank used lightly, but he hated everything about this week. He hated Bitterman and the bureaucracy that had kept it a problem this long; that had forced the violence to such a head. He hated Los Lourdes and he hated the media that were whipping the public into a frenzy, putting national and international eyes on his city. He hated that Vinny Cruz was dead. He hated that when he died, it had been in Jamie's bloodied arms.

And he hated these damn funerals.

His eyes drifted, as they always did, to the photograph of Joe.

_Lord, please. Give me the strength to get through this day. Give me words of comfort and encouragement. Help me lead the officers entrusted to me to find justice for what happened to Vinny Cruz, and for the people living every day under that violence. Thank you for watching over my family, especially Danny and Jamie. Watch over Vinny's family. Take care of him, and Joe and Mary and mom. Forgive me for not being able to protect them, dearest God... forgive me for not doing more._

"Dad?" Erin was hesitating in the doorway, wearing a demure black dress, her hair caught up at the nape of her neck. "Our ride's here."

"Okay." He took a moment, putting his eyes on the wood grain as he composed himself.

She stepped up beside him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. Her gaze trailed across the myriad of family photos lining the bureau before meeting her father's eyes in the mirror. "You going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine." He managed a smile for her and kissed her cheek.

She drew back to look at him, eyes knowing, before tucking his arm into hers and leading him to the hall.

Henry was waiting at the bottom of the steps, looking polished and crisp in his own NYPD brass, though his eyes were weighted with sorrow. Frank noticed that he was leaning against the banister a bit heavier than normal, too. Nicky was beside him, wearing a black dress similar to her mother's, and old enough now to understand the magnitude of what these funerals meant; she waited in silence, with respect. Linda was close by, Sean tucked against her in a neat suit and Jack at her other side. "Danny's outside," she said quietly, when Frank looked her way.

He hesitated, turning that piece of information over in his mind before nodding and motioning everyone towards the main door. As soon as Linda opened it, a hand on the other side guided it fully open - one of Frank's body men, who stood respectfully by as they were ushered to the waiting detail of SUVs at the curb. Frank was the last one out, closing the door with a click behind him. He glanced left and saw Danny standing in the front yard, kicking at the mulch around one of Mary's rosebushes. He looked wantonly out of place in his dress blues, hat tucked under his arm. Frank took a step towards him, but stopped at the edge of the front pavers. The grass had been mowed recently, and he didn't want the blades sticking to his shoes. On this day, everything had to be crisp. Perfect. They had to control what they could, after all. "Danny, you ready?"

His oldest son looked over, face sour, and slowly made his way to his father. "Ready to get this over with," he groused.

"You okay?"

"I hate funerals," he replied, then sighed before glancing up at his father. "They... they make me feel like I failed."

Frank pressed his lips together. "We'll get through it," he said. "Come on. We can't keep anyone waiting."

Danny nodded and walked with him, climbing into the rear SUV with Linda, the kids and Nicky. Frank stepped into the front vehicle, where Erin and Henry had slipped into the back row of seats. Once he was settled in and the smooth ride began, Henry leaned forward almost immediately. "Francis, do you remember Mickey Wallace from Harlem?"

"Not particularly." He knew better than to ask his father where he was going with this.

Henry smiled. "Goofball of a kid. I think he came up through the academy a few years after you. Anyway, he was under my command during one of my early assignments. He lost his partner, Tommy Hash, during a convenience store robbery in Alphabet City."

"I do remember that." Frank frowned. Another funeral, for another officer cut down in the line of duty.

"I was in my office the next day, and you were there," Henry said. "You had just made detective, I think? And Mickey came in, and I'll never forget what he said. He said to me, 'Cap, I don't think there was a thing Tommy would have done differently. He was brave from the first moment I met him until the last. But Cap, I'm gonna think about what _I _could've done differently for the rest of my life.'"

Frank sighed, letting those words sink in. "That about sums it up, doesn't it."

Quiet settled across them, and Frank looked over the shoulders of his driver and main body man in the front seats. He lost himself in the landscape around them as it slowly merged from quiet, sleepy houses tucked behind generous leafing trees to pavement, glass and steel.

"Dad," Erin said after a moment, pulling him from his solitude. "How is Jamie?"

"He's riding in with the 12th," Frank replied absently. "We'll meet him there."

"No, I mean... _how_ is Jamie?" He turned to look at her, and her face was tight with concern. "He hasn't spoken to me at all this week."

"You know everyone deals with these things differently." He turned back, settling himself deeper into the seat. "You can't begrudge your brother some reflection time if that's what he wants."

"I don't mean that," she replied, voice clipping the words tight in frustration. "How is he really?"

Frank hesitated. "Danny's been checking in with him. Says he's doing all right."

He could almost hear his daughter's eyes narrow; feel her rising indignation from the seat behind him. "You've not talked to him?"

"I talked to him the day after. He's getting through it."

"But nothing since then?" she pressed.

Frank sighed. "I've been a little busy, hon."

"How could you possibly be 'a little busy' right now? Dad, his partner died in his arms. He got _shot_; he could've been killed!"

"Garrett is fielding nonstop calls from CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and all three major news channels," Frank snapped back. "I've got the mayor's office breathing down my neck and the FBI and ATF are getting interested, too. I care about Jamie's welfare as much as the rest of you, and that's why I've asked Danny to make sure he's all right. Like it or not, I'm the police commissioner and my city needs me to do my job right now. And I need him to do his."

Erin sat back, then crossed her legs sharply and turned away from her father towards her own window, simmering. Henry leaned forward again, this time placing a hand of understanding on Frank's shoulder. "Reminds you of Mary, doesn't it?"

Frank sighed. It did, more than he cared to admit, and he also wasn't keen to admit that his daughter was right. He hadn't been giving Jamie the check-ins he probably needed, but he could only do so much. They would get through this funeral, and then, perhaps, he would find time to touch base with Jamie. But Danny said he was doing all right. Danny would tell him if there was something he needed to know.

"Danny would tell me if there was something I needed to know," Frank blurted out.

He caught Erin's movement from the corner of his eye as she turned to pin him to the seat, her gaze a dagger. "Maybe that's something you should find out for yourself," she said. "Danny's intentions are good but he's in the zone right now with this case. So long as Jamie's vertical and breathing, he's okay in Danny's book. You know that."

"All right, fine," he replied shortly, and turned back to the window.

It was one more thing he needed to do. One more thing to file away. He wondered absently how much further he could stretch himself, even for this.

Then he wondered, with no small measure of surprise, just when things had gotten so hectic that he was finding trouble carving out time for his own son.

Things moved quickly once they arrived in the Bitterman neighborhood. It was a true NYPD funeral, there was no doubt about that. Cops everywhere took it hard when one of their own was killed in the line, and in New York, there was enough blue to turn out in absolute droves without putting the safety of the city at stake. There were already hundreds, perhaps thousands of officers on the sidewalks and the closed streets, lining the route that Officer Cruz's hearse was to take. They were standing ten and fifteen deep in places, and as the SUVs whisked past them silently, the tension in Frank's vehicle cooled as the solemnity of the occasion took hold. Almost all the officers they passed were outfitted smartly in dress blues and white gloves but others, many dozens of others, were on duty. Those officers watched the crowds of local residents instead as the people gathered behind police barricades, some watching with fascination, others with unimpressed glares. It made Frank a special kind of sick to know that Vinny Cruz's killer was likely roaming these streets right now, still free, still cocky, and he vowed anew not to rest until the murderer was in custody or in the sights of an NYPD issue 9mm semiautomatic. Preferably the latter.

The Church of Raphael the Archangel was an old, tiny jewel box nestled within a series of teetering high-rise apartment buildings. On the east, it was framed by a small garden knotted together by tangles of roses, climbing vines and delicate morning glory flowers. City officials and brass were everywhere, and Frank allowed Henry and Erin to exit the car first once they pulled up in front of the building. Danny escorted Linda and the boys up the worn stone steps of the church, and Erin put an arm around Nicky's narrow shoulders as they ascended. Frank took a moment in the silence of the SUV to compose himself - deep breath, quick review of how the ceremony would proceed, a mental flick through his notes for the comments he would be expected to make. After straightening his uniform, he stepped into the warm, pale light of the morning sun and followed after his family, nodding at the officers who saluted him crisply from their places on the edges of the stairs and ignoring the clusters of media across the street who filmed and photographed him quietly. Thankfully, no one raised questions over the sea of officers, all of them respecting the solemn occasion.

Frank made his way inside, nodding to Garrett and several other chiefs and super chiefs who were waiting in the narthex, a small gathering space just inside the church's entrance. The interior was already overflowing with mourners; the church was so small, the NYPD had been forced to work closely with the mayor's office and the Cruz family to make sure the guest list was kept tight. Windows of stained glass stretched almost from floor to ceiling, and as the sunlight climbed eastward it fell in great slabs of green, violet and ruby across the gathered crowd, splashing color on the marble floor. The parish priest, a man named Father Steven Gomez, stood nearby, outfitted in flowing robes of gold and white for the Mass. "A pleasure to meet you, Father," Frank said quietly, stepping to the man's side. "I'm sorry it's not a better occasion."

"As am I, Commissioner," he said. "Did you know Officer Cruz well?"

Frank nodded. "He was my son's partner, as I'm sure you know. I had the chance to chat with him on several occasions. He was a very good officer, but more importantly, a good man."

The priest smiled sadly at that, but then turned to face Frank suddenly, robes swirling. "Of course - how is your son?" he asked. "I understand he was injured."

Frank opened his mouth to reply, and the words nearly lodged in his throat. "He's, uh... he's fine, Father. Thank you for asking."

Excusing himself, Frank took a moment to greet some of Vinny's extended family and friends, already seated toward the front of the small church, and shake hands with the governor and both state senators, who had flown in with small details to be present. They never would have come, he knew, had the case not been so high profile, but that didn't matter now and he set the bitter thoughts aside. His eyes lit on Danny, Linda, Erin, Henry and the kids already seated in the second row on the right, shifting on the hard pews, saving a place for him on the aisle. He caught Danny's eye and nodded a distant check-in - Danny, ever his father's son, nodded back an affirmation that all was well - then Frank moved with purpose to the back of the church. Because the narthex was so small, the introductory rite would be conducted on the main steps, and he moved quietly into place, guided by one of the NYPD's protocol officers into a narrow gap between the mayor and the church's deacon, waiting just behind Father Gomez and a small army of altar servers.

Frank didn't have to wait long before he heard the unmistakable sounds of the approaching procession, but he would have waited forever if it meant not having to hear those motors, those bagpipes; not having to see the sea of officers below him straightening to attention. He forced his expression to remain locked in quiet solemnity and tightened down on the grief that swelled as a swarm of officers moved past on motorcycles, their formation tight and progress even and slow, red and blue lights painting across the assembled crowd. The NYPD Emerald Society Pipes and Drums followed, their staccato drumbeats proceeding them, setting a deep, sad rhythm for his heart. The city was curiously silent around him, as quiet as it ever got, as those haunting drumbeats carried on, tugging at Frank's heart and wrenching it back in time four agonizing years.

The hearse was next, framed on either side by a quartet of officers moving in measured and respectful silence, and as it passed, every officer within sight raised a gloved right hand in salute. Behind it was the limousine that carried Vinny's immediate family, and behind that, on foot, moved almost every officer of Manhattan's 12th precinct, whose jurisdiction had been transferred to the 16th for a few hours to let the closest members of Vinny's NYPD family be present for the funeral. Once the hearse stopped in front of the church, just past the main steps, everything stopped with it, and it was in that silence that the officers of the Pipes and Drums began playing the mournful "An Inspector's Funeral," a song played at every NYPD funeral since well before his own grandfather's days on the force.

The notes gashed him to the bone.

Breathing deeply, Frank listened as the last bars died away and watched, could only watch, as the coffin was lifted from the hearse. It was draped in the NYPD flag of white, navy blue and green, and hoisted onto the shoulders of the solemn-faced escorting officers. As they lifted the coffin up to the crowd's eye-level, its colors glistening in the morning light, a bagpipe warmed the still air with the familiar melody of "Amazing Grace." It played until the officers brought the casket halfway up the stairs and halted in front of Father Gomez, who gazed down upon it with soft eyes.

Frank, too, stared down at the coffin.

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all," Father Gomez said, voice measured and calm.

"And with your spirit," Frank replied, as did all Catholics within earshot.

Two waiting officers gently lifted the flag from Vinny's coffin. It would be removed only temporarily, just for the funeral, and as it was taken aside, two of the altar servers draped a beautiful white funeral pall across it instead.

And Frank stared on.

Another officer gone. Another family shattered. Another failure, with this young and vibrant officer lying dead before him.

It felt like Joe.

Then a thought occurred, so sudden and so devastating that he nearly lost his balance and he had to take a quick intake of breath to steady himself.

_It could have been Jamie._

"In the waters of baptism, Vincent died with Christ and rose with him to new life," Father Gomez said quietly, sprinkling Holy Water across the cloth and casket. "May he now share with him in eternal glory."

And as the first strains of "How Great Thou Art" filtered to them from inside the church and the priest turned to enter, the pallbearers just behind, Frank suddenly saw his youngest son, standing right at the front of the large group of men and women from the 12th, moving with quiet and orderly precision up the steps. He was in a place of some honor in the front row, with the captains and lieutenants, and Sergeant Renzulli was just behind him.

Their eyes locked, just for a moment.

Jamie was expressionless.

)()()()()()()()()()(

Jamie had never spent a lot of time thinking through best and worst moments when it came to his life. He had a lot of unforgettable days - his first hours in London as a college junior, the acceptance letter to Harvard Law, proposing to Sydney, pinning the NYPD shield to his uniform for the first time - but he'd never given them a ranking or thought about them in some measured sequence, as though he was supposed to give an accounting of his life and needed a top ten list in order. In similar fashion, he'd never put a lot of thought into his worst moments, though his mind only needed to skim lightly past the concept before those endless, awful times broke through in garish color.

The night his father had been shot in the line of duty. He'd been only seven when it happened, and his mother's screams had meant the worst to him. He had spent hours hiding under his own bed, sobbing into the elbow of his Power Rangers pajamas, before Erin had found him and dragged him out into her arms.

Saying goodbye to Danny the day he left for Afghanistan.

Standing on Church Street and Walker on September 11, watching as the World Trade Center was attacked and wishing, with a hunger he'd never before recognized, that he could be one of those police officers rushing deep into Lower Manhattan.

His mom, diagnosed with cancer, then slowly, achingly, withering away.

Joe.

And now, this.

Jamie honestly wasn't sure if it got worse than this. He knew, logically, that there was nothing he could have done to protect Vinny in that dirty concrete quad in Bitterman, but he hadn't been prepared for the second-guessing, or the awful guilt that crushed his chest and made every breath a struggle. He hadn't taken a deep, cleansing pull of air in a week, and that had nothing to do with the bruise on his chest and everything to do with the twenty-pound weight that had hung itself around his neck the moment Vinny was torn from his arms by the first responding officers who showed up on the scene.

A thick elbow drove itself into his ribs, and Jamie glanced over at Renzulli, who was scowling at him and looking pointedly toward the front of the church. The cantor had just finished proclaiming the Psalm for the Mass, the twenty-third, of course, and she was making her way down, which meant it was time for him to make his way up.

His captain at the 12th had been the one who relayed the news to him. "Vinny's family wants you to be part of the funeral, Jamie," he said, the compassion in his voice traveling through the phone. "It's important to them."

He had gripped the edge of his kitchen counter. "I don't know if I should speak, sir."

"You just have to be a lector, that's all. Second reading. Vinny's mom said she always liked the fact that Vinny had a practicing Catholic as a partner." He chuckled a little. "Go figure with moms, huh? C'mon, don't make me have to be an asshole and tell her you won't do it."

So, in the tiny church replete with morning color and gold accents of crosses and etchings that looked like icing decorations on a cake, he stood from his place at the far side of the second aisle, and moved silently to the ambo at the front of the church. He purposefully entered from the side, keeping his distance from the casket, and did not look at the assembled crowd until he was behind the podium, the lectionary before him and the microphone primed.

Even then, as he took a moment to compose himself and run eyes over the hundreds of faces tipped up to him, he didn't register a single one. Not even Danny's, who was fumbling with confusion through his program and elbowing his father next to him, no doubt in the dark about Jamie's role in the service. Frank shrugged back, equally clueless.

He lowered his eyes to the page and began.

"A reading from the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans. Brothers and sisters, no one lives for oneself, and no one dies for oneself. For, if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord. So then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord's."

It was a beautiful reading; one of his favorites from childhood, in fact, even though he would never confess such a thing to anyone. He knew it well, and delivered it perfectly, impassively, even the final line: "So then, each of us shall give an accounting of himself to God."

Jamie looked up, into the crowd, seeing nothing. "The word of the Lord," he finished.

"Thanks be to God," they responded.

He didn't remember getting back to his seat, and he barely felt Renzulli's gentle punch that meant a job well done. He registered little of the homily that followed from Father Gomez and only caught fractions of the remarks his own father delivered, beyond a few snippets - "To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord," he said at one point, when Jamie's consciousness drifted toward awareness, and he caught the Latin phrase "fidelis ad mortem" some time after that, which his brain immediately and helpfully translated. Fidelis ad mortem. Faithful unto death. He turned that over and over, ignoring the rest of his father's delivery and the comments from the mayor that followed, letting the words like "remarkable" and "enthusiastic" flow mindlessly past him, only picking up vaguely on the praises they heaped upon Vinny for his love of the city, his dedication to the mission of the NYPD, his special way with kids and the toughness of his own childhood that had led him to become a cop. It was good, and it was true enough, but Jamie couldn't bear to listen to another word.

_To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord._

_Fidelis ad mortem. Faithful unto death._

_So then, each of us shall give an accounting of himself to God._

He went to Communion on autopilot, and only stood for the closing song when Renzulli's hand came down on his good shoulder and squeezed it, hard. Jamie leaned into him, raising his voice only enough to be heard over the thick strains of the pipe organ above them. "Go ahead without me, Sarge."

"Huh?" Renzulli leaned in closer to him.

"I said, go ahead without me."

"That's what I thought you said." His eyes cut fervently left and right, as though he was scandalized by whispering in church. "Why?"

"I need a minute. Please," he added, and was grateful to see Renzulli press his lips together and nod, gently, as though he understood. Of course, right? Jamie needed to have a few moments to compose himself for the world outside the walls of the Church of Raphael the Archangel; to be ready to be the officer his family and fellow brothers in arms needed him to be. Jamie knew, of course, that that wasn't it at all, but it would do fine for Renzulli to believe it. Whatever got his sergeant out of the church at this point, honestly, was fine by Jamie's estimation.

Jamie watched as Vinny's coffin was guided to the back of the church, escorted by the priest and altar servers and his own family, the Reagans standing in solidarity with Vinny's mother and siblings. He saw the elected officials filter into the aisle behind them, and as the other officers from the 12th began to file out, he heard "Taps" begin to play outside.

Slowly, gripping the old wood of the pew before him, Jamie eased himself to a seat as the gathered congregation continued to file out down the center aisle, following Vinny's casket for the final portion of his journey. They were taking him to St. John's Cemetery in Brooklyn, if he remembered right. He wasn't completely sure. The only thing he knew for certain at that moment was that he was glad, damn glad, that his family and the guys from the 12th were already gone. He wanted no one here, no one around him.

Resting his hands still on the pew before him, he crossed them at the wrist and slowly dropped his head into the cradle of his arms.

_God, I have no idea if you can hear me. I always thought you could. But if you're there, you'd better answer me because you've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do._

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_I've never doubted you. Even when I had every reason to. I've always believed in you and I've tried to follow your way my whole life. I've been faithful. I've loved you and I've loved everyone around me - well, most of the time, at least. I've tried to never return evil for evil, or ugly for ugly._

He could hear the church emptying around him. Quiet was easing down over him, like the settling of stirred dust.

_I knew there would be things I couldn't understand. I never understood why so many people had to die on September 11th. I still don't get why you took mom away when you did. She was such a wonderful person, God. She deserved so much more than the suffering you left her with. And then you had to go and take Joe, too._

Tears slipped, unbidden, from his eyes.

_God, how could you do that to him? How could you do that to us, to me? Mom wasn't enough? I guess if you're there and you know every heart like they say you do, you know I'll never heal from what you did to me the day he died. You know there's a place in my soul that's ripped out that isn't ever going to get better. But I'm here. I've kept on, because I trusted that you had some kind of damn plan that would make sense one day, and that maybe, somewhere, it would make sense that somebody as good and loving and kind as him could die when I see thousands of worthless, awful people living and breathing around me every single day._

He breathed.

It hurt to breathe.

He lifted his head, slowly, and focused on the crucifix through blurry eyes.

_Now my partner's dead, and I don't think you even know, God. Or if you do, I sure as hell don't think you care because you're so removed from everything that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to you what happens to us. Joe and Vinny had their whole lives in front of them. Why don't they get to get married and have kids? Why don't they get to go on vacation and walk on the beach, or look up at the stars at night? Why don't they get to eat a damn hot dog at a baseball game, or laugh, or sleep in on a Saturday morning? Why do some of us get that and people who do everything right, like they did, don't? I understand, I do, that you gave man free will and maybe we get to just blame each other for the bad things that happen, but you're supposed to be good. You're supposed to be _good_. What am I supposed to do now? Can you tell me that? What in the hell am I supposed to even believe in?_

The sunlight shifted gently, as though it had been filtered through a cloud, and the warmth of gold and green, amethyst and orange, brightened across the empty aisles.

_Oh, no. I'm not falling for that. It's going to take more than a little sunlight through stained glass. You want an accounting of me, God? How about you give me an accounting of _you _this time? All-powerful. All good. All-knowing. You explain to me right now, right _goddamn _now, how any of this can ever be right. I want to know how anything is ever going to be right again._

A hand came down on Jamie's shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Easy, kid." Danny slumped into the pew just behind him, draping his free arm over the back of Jamie's row. "What's going on?"

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, pulling away from Danny and curving his body away from him, too. He scrubbed at his face with both hands.

"I was looking for you. Saw you didn't come out, so I decided to hang back."

"I just needed some time, that all. Go on; they'll be missing you."

Danny looked at him curiously. "The procession's been gone for ten minutes already. You know how it is with the NYPD and this stuff. They wait for no man."

"Well, I'm fine." He sat back, hard, against the wood of the pew.

Danny was quiet for a moment. "You did good up there with that reading. I didn't realize they had pegged you for a lector."

"Vinny's mother asked me to do it. I couldn't say no."

"Yeah, well, you did a nice job." Danny's hand curled around the top of the pew. "I hate funerals."

Jamie didn't reply, and instead stared at his hands in his lap.

"I wish I could help you, Jamie," Danny said softly. "You know I would move heaven and earth to take this away from you."

Jamie blinked and, oddly touched, turned to glance back at his older brother. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "What's a brother for?"

Jamie sighed shakily and ran a hand down his face once again before glancing behind him at the church. It was almost completely cleared out, except for a few stragglers towards the back and an altar server in front, her white robes exchanged for jeans and Sketchers, carefully extinguishing the candles. "This is making me question a lot of things I used to be sure about, Danny. I don't know how to get through it."

Danny sighed, peering thoughtfully at the stained glass windows that arced up next to them. "This is probably not the time to remind you that I never thought you should be a cop in the first place."

"No, probably not," he sighed, but smiling despite himself. The debate was so old now it had become a joke between them, which suited Jamie just fine.

"Look at it this way, then. You know there's a lot of stuff we don't have answers for. Never gonna get answers, either. At least not down here. It's like gramps always says, 'I can't wait to get to heaven 'cause I got a list for God a mile long.'" Danny smirked and cuffed Jamie gently on the head. "You can spend your whole life wondering and being pissed and not figuring it out, or you can just take it a day at a time and see what happens. I bet you'll be surprised, kid. I mean, I watched my buddies get killed in Afghanistan - you remember Chuckles, that teenage kid that got killed in my place one night when I couldn't go on patrol. I've seen cops get killed. I watched our brother die, Jamie. I _know_ about guilt."

"So what did you do?" he asked hollowly, twisting to meet his brother's eyes. "Where do you even start?"

Danny smirked at him. Jamie watched as Danny slowly uncurled one finger from the back of the pew, pointing upward. "Gotta give it over, kid," he said softly.

Jamie frowned. "I don't think that's the answer."

"You've got to turn off that higher education brain of yours, Jamie. Stuff like this, you don't find the answers in your head. They're in your heart. You have to stop looking outside and start looking inside." Danny leaned back, comfortably sprawled, and waved a hand over himself. "Don't you remember what mom used to say? 'Be still.' You remember that?"

"I think she was talking to you, and I think she wanted you to quit tearing up the house," he muttered.

"Well, yeah, but she used to tell me that at night before prayers, too. 'Be still.' You know, open yourself up. 'Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.'" Danny looked quite pleased. "I taught the boys that, too."

"I get it, Danny, but..." Jamie sighed. "I need something concrete right now. Something fair. This doesn't make sense to me."

"Well, this probably won't be much of a news flash, but life's not fair, Jamie. I thought I taught you that when you were five and I used to steal your cookies when mom wasn't looking." He grinned. "In all fairness, I took your brussel sprouts too, so you owed me."

"How can you be so glib about this?" Jamie snapped back. "Danny, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"You're supposed to keep living, Jamie." His gaze was steady; his eyes, surprisingly assured. "You're supposed to carry on."

"And what if I can't?" His voice cracked.

"Well, then I carry on for both of us," he said, and stood, calmly extending a hand over the back of the pew to Jamie. "And that includes taking my little brother along when he doesn't think he can make it. So c'mon."

Jamie hesitated. Danny waggled his hand. "Come on, Jamie. If you don't come willingly I'm picking you up and you know how badly that goes."

He smiled despite himself.

And as Danny pulled him back out into the light, Jamie still didn't know how the hell anything was going to be right again, and he didn't understand anything more than he did before.

But he couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, his prayer had been answered after all.

* * *

"_I hit the deck, I hit rock bottom  
__But you saw me, then you caught me  
__Shining like a ray of hope, swift like a turning sea  
__Angel to comfort me  
__Cradling my head in your hands  
__I looked up at the sun, and the fog cleared; I saw you..."_

- Darren Hayes, "Taken By the Sea"


	8. Chapter 8

**While the Heart Beats, pt. 8**

**Author's Note:** This chapter officially concludes the "While the Heart Beats" saga. I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I have, and I do apologize for the long wait. Happy to be back and much more to come from your favorite evasive author!

* * *

"_I stared up at the sun  
__Thought of all the people, places and things I've loved  
__I stared up just to see  
__Of all of the faces, you were the one next to me..."  
_- OneRepublic, "If I Lose Myself"

* * *

It didn't happen often in New York, but every once in a while, there was no sound.

Not to say that the car horns weren't still blaring - they always would be, in his city, and he didn't have to walk far to hear laughter and conversations in a hundred dialects, overlapping in a beautiful mosaic of sound on the streets around him.

But sometimes, for Jamie, it all faded.

For example, the night he lost his mother.

To this day, all it took was a sudden, unexpected drift of honeysuckle in the air or the sight of a dark-haired woman in a camel-colored Burberry trench coat on the sidewalk for him to be transported instantly back into her arms, and it was in that memory he preferred to stay - his mother, whole and healthy, her face sunlight and her smile a mirror of his own. But he could still remember, with a clarity brought on by shock, how his wandering feet had taken him to the Tribeca sailing pier the night she died, and how he had stared with sightless eyes over the quiet waters of the Hudson where the muted sounds of Manhattan couldn't quite reach. It had been silent, so silent, and he could still remember the chill in the air; the glitter of moonlight on the water. He had stood there in that silence and wondered how he could be huddled at the feet of one of the world's biggest cities and still feel so suddenly, hopeless alone.

He had noticed the silence, too, on the occasional morning as he finished a graveyard shift, staring blearily as the sun cracked the horizon over Brooklyn Heights. Vinny would always sigh and squint like a vampire at the rays, immediately throwing down the sun visor in the squad, but Jamie would blink away his exhaustion to take in the stillness with interest, watching as the city took a long, easy stretch and popped its back in anticipation of a new day.

He had a vague impression that the silence might have happened at Vinny's funeral, too, somewhere between the bagpipes and the words of the priest, but he wasn't sure. Most of that day had been a haze.

And if he was completely honest with himself, he still felt, sometimes, like he was moving through that same haze still. He dreaded work because reminders of Vinny followed him everywhere, in the precinct and on their familiar beat, and every time he saw that goofy grin in his mind a fresh twist of guilt splashed in with it. _You didn't save him, Reagan, _his conscience would helpfully remind him, each and every time._ Two of you went into Bitterman. How do you explain being the only one to come out? _

As if that wasn't bad enough, the tours themselves were even worse. He dreaded the calls almost as much as the spaces between them, and when the long shifts finally ended, he dreaded his silent apartment. He slept some, ate a little. On Sundays, he went to his father's house and pretended the salad and beef didn't taste like paper in his mouth, eating just enough to avoid questions, hoping his father was distracted enough by the latest crisis at work to miss the exhaustion in his eyes. Jamie knew it was there; saw it every time he looked in the mirror, despite his best efforts. He knew how to force himself through the mechanics of the day, but he had no idea what to do for that emptiness in his eyes; the hollow place inside his soul. It was dark there, and he had no light to find his way. It was silent, and he couldn't escape the crushing weight of its emptiness.

Every once in a while, that darkness, that silence, spilled out into everything around him, and he was helpless to stop it.

Like now.

A late August sun was above him, its afternoon glare relentless. His black uniform drank in the heat, and sweat ran into his eyes, but he didn't dare pause to swipe it away. He just kept running, and took a quick dart left to avoid a homeless woman with a packed shopping cart before hanging a sharp right into a narrow alley. If she shouted at him to watch where he was going, he didn't hear it, any more than he heard his own ragged breaths or his feet pounding rhythm on the pavement. There was only Renzulli's voice, tight and controlled in his ear from his shoulder radio, calling out his best guesses on the location of their fleeing suspect, the squad's tires squealing and its siren a distant wail in the background. That, though, even that was hard to make out past the desperate beats of his heart, thundering double-time against his ribcage.

He'd lost track of how long he had been running. It felt like ten minutes, fifteen, but of course that couldn't be right. He and Renzulli had only spotted the kid a few minutes before, and the teenager had looked suspicious from the get-go, his gym bag stuffed and heavy even though there wasn't a Gold's within a square mile. The kid spotted the squad, then turned cartoonishly wide eyes upon Renzulli and Jamie, and the chase was on. The surge of energy that had dumped into Jamie's veins as he shoved open the passenger door and darted after the kid had made time irrelevant, the traffic meaningless, and sound a waste. There was only heat, baking him alive, and Renzulli's guiding voice, and fear.

Fear. A bit of fear was good for a cop. It taught reflection, respect. But this much?

_God, don't let me screw up again._

"Think he just dumped the bag behind Sofia's on Mulberry - he's turning east, Reagan. You on him?"

He was, somehow, thanks to the rigid police procedures ground hard and deep into him at the academy. Cut off the suspect. Gain the advantage. Jamie knew the Little Italy area well enough to narrow down the suspect's options, and the kid was almost certainly bolting down nearby Euclid Alley, a narrow twist of dumpsters and razor-wire fencing with a violent history. If he made it through there, he would tumble out onto Grand Street, within spitting distance of the tourist haunts. The teenager would have no trouble blending into the fabric of busy streets and busy shops there.

If Jamie could cut him off; just get to him first, it would be over. A textbook procedure. Nothing to it.

Except...

Except the last time he had been in a foot chase, it had ended with his partner dead in his arms.

Fear surged again, unbidden, and when he sucked in his next breath it felt like sand going down.

)()()()()()()()()()(

When Jamie had started riding with Renzulli again, just three days after Vinny's funeral, Jamie had been up front about his concerns. There was no reason to hide, after all, and especially not from Renzulli. "I'm just not sure what I'll do," Jamie had admitted, slouching deep in the passenger seat of the squad and staring down at the lid of his disposable coffee cup. He hated even speaking the words aloud; giving them power by letting them out of the dark spaces of his mind. "I don't want to be a liability to you, Sarge."

"Sit up straight," Renzulli snapped in reply, and Jamie automatically responded to the sharp note of authority in his voice, straightening up. "Jeez, kid, did I teach you nothing? Respect that uniform ya got on. You're an NYPD officer, not some punk about to sleep through sophomore English. And what am I, your mom?"

"Sorry," he said quickly, checking his shirt for wrinkles and running a hand over the fabric to smooth it against the bulletproof vest he wore beneath. "But Sarge, seriously. What if-"

Renzulli held up a hand. "Reagan. Please. You got nothing to worry about. You know this job is about as exciting as watching grass grow ninety-five percent of the time."

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. "Except when we're, I don't know, rescuing babies from burning buildings?"

"That was all you, Superman."

"Or arresting three dozen people at a time for disorderly conduct."

"Thank God New Year's Eve comes but once a year."

"Or getting thrown down flights of stairs."

Renzulli's eyes rolled. "So we've had a _little _excitement."

Jamie grinned a little, despite himself. "Or trying to get perp descriptions from those girls in the West Village."

"In my own defense, I had no idea those were drag queens. They looked better than my wife."

Jamie opened his mouth to continue, but Renzulli cut him off. "Your point, Reagan."

He sobered. "My point is the five percent, Sarge. The important stuff."

"Yeah? What exactly are you worried about? You think you've all of a sudden forgotten everything I taught you? All the stuff you've learned the last couple years?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Jamie bit his lip. "I'm just afraid it'll be different. That I'll hesitate, you know?"

Renzulli drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the squad, considering that. "Nah," he finally decided, and nodded his head as if to make it so. "You'll be fine. Have some faith in yourself, kid."

"How can you be so sure?" Jamie ran a thumb over the white plastic of the coffee lid. "I don't... I'm not sure how I'll respond if something happens, Sarge. I mean, you know how your mind switches off in those situations, and you just... you just act?"

"You did fine when you came back after the shooting in Washington Square Park," Renzulli pointed out, and Jamie grimaced at the oversharp memory that sprang unbidden to his mind, seeing the gun in his hands and the older man sprawled dead on the pavement before him, blood rapidly soaking his dress shirt from a pair of bullets Jamie himself had fired. Renzulli, however, plowed on. "Don't sell yourself short there, Reagan. That was a big deal."

"Yeah, but this..." Jamie sighed. "This is different, Sarge. This was my partner, you know?"

"I know," he replied, voice gentling.

"So, what if I freeze? Or I screw something up? What if-"

"Your training will kick in, and you'll do the job like you've always done," Renzulli replied. "And you've got the Reagan killer instincts on top of that. You have my personal guarantee, kid. You're gonna be fine."

Jamie managed a half-smile and looked over at Renzulli, who was now slouched comfortably behind the wheel of the squad himself. "I appreciate that, Sarge, but... how can you know for sure?"

Renzulli grinned. "I know you."

)()()()()()()()()()(

And Jamie had to admit, it was comfortable, being back with Renzulli again. He honestly wasn't sure he could've handled anyone else. They fit together in the easy way good partners did. Renzulli complained, Jamie ascertained. Jamie reflected, Renzulli launched. It worked, and it was easy. They were a good team.

Except now, Renzulli was only a lonely voice in his ear, a little more insistent now that Jamie had gone silent, but he didn't have breath to answer. They were separated by blocks of concrete and fencing and asphalt anyway; it wasn't like Renzulli could be much help to him now, and Jamie was surging headlong and alone down Euclid after a fleeing suspect who was somewhere ahead, hopefully just around the next bend and not lying in wait behind one of the dumpsters or piles of abandoned tires up ahead.

He couldn't think about that. He couldn't let himself think, because the fear was already pressing down on him and he couldn't let it rush into panic. He had to just keep going; trust his training and trust his instincts and force air into his sealing lungs and just _go_. He'd chased suspects before. Nothing to it. This wouldn't end with the firecracker pop of bullets or a uniform sodden with blood. No one was going to die. Not today.

Not today.

Jamie gasped for breath, his chest tight and burning, his vision blurry from exertion, and ignored the fear. It clung to him stubbornly, cold in the sweat on his overheated skin, but it couldn't stop him from surging forward, past the dumpster and piles of trash that concealed no one, and he didn't have time to be grateful. Instead, he skidded around the alley's final twist, just yards away from the alley's exit now, one hand hovering close to his gun holster, his muscles trembling from exhaustion, but stopped short when he saw-

Grand Street, just a short jog ahead, but framed out in pretty little diamonds by an imposing ten-foot chain link fence he hadn't been expecting, sealing off the alley from an easy exit. It was topped with a generous twist of barbed wire, and trapped inside it was none other than his suspect, a kid no older than sixteen, scrabbling anxiously and yelping every time the wire bit into his skin. "Hey man! Hey man, get me down! What the hell!"

"Hold it right there," Jamie wheezed, still fighting for air. He could see that the kid's hands were empty, his bag of stolen goods long discarded and no weapons evident as he clung to the fence desperately, legs pretzeled in the cutting wire, his white T-shirt hung up haphazardly in the blades. "Don't move."

"I _can't_ move!" the kid shouted back. "It hurts, man! Get me loose!"

Jamie grabbed his radio. "12-Sargent, I have one in... custody, Euclid at Grand," he managed between pants.

"10-4, 12-Sargent responding. Thirty seconds out."

Jamie stepped up to the fence, testing its strength before scaling it quickly, his moves easy and practiced from a childhood spent chasing Danny and Joe back and forth over the fences of the 79th Street playground. "Hey man! Hey man!" the kid screamed, as Jamie's movement caused the fence to wobble. "Don't do that!"

"You want to get loose or not? Hold still." Jamie pulled himself up almost to eye level with the suspect, and reached in carefully to frisk him, checking the waistband of his jeans and running his free hand down the kid's legs, wincing when one of the barbs sliced the back of his hand.

"I got nothing on me, man! C'mon!" the kid wailed, as an NYPD squad car suddenly shrieked to a stop at the alley's mouth, red and blue lights twirling. Renzulli climbed out in short order, checking in with Central on his own radio as he jogged forward.

Jamie leaned left to see him. "He's clean, Sarge. Gonna need the wire cutters for this job, though."

Renzulli thumbed his hat back on his head to peer up at the suspect, who had finally stilled, though obscenities were beginning to replace his frantic movements. "Hey, goofball! If you'da quit running when we told ya to, you'd only be putting up with a fancy pair of bracelets." He grinned, then looked at Jamie. "You all right, kid?"

Jamie nodded and eased himself down the fence carefully. His knees shook when he landed and he paused for a moment, curling his fingers around the links of the fence. He took a breath - shaky - then another, and the second went down a little smoother.

"Reagan," Renzulli said. The sarge was still on the other side of the fence, and motioning Jamie away, towards the alley walls. Backup was filtering in from Grand Street, the cops chuckling as they eyeballed the foul-mouthed suspect and started climbing up to free him from the barbed wire. Jamie stepped away, glad to turn the suspect over. His muscles were jelly and fear trembled on in his spine, prickling his skin like sparks.

Somehow, Renzulli seemed to know this. His dark gaze was piercing through the chain links. "Kid," he said.

Jamie nodded. "I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He hesitated, taking stock of himself. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Renzulli nodded back, grinning. "So now can I say I told ya so?"

His brow furrowed. "Told me what?"

"That you had nothing to worry about." He grinned. "When ya gonna learn to listen to me, kid?"

Jamie hesitated, then realized that the ground under his feet was solid and real; his muscles, though exhausted, were whole. He'd done the job and done it well. He chanced a smile - his first real one in a while - and felt the unnatural coolness on his skin begin to thaw under the relentless August sun.

It felt a little bit like healing.

)()()()()()()()()()(

Sunday dinner that week was a Henry Reagan special, consisting of roast chicken with chanterelles and peas, herb-roasted potatoes and onions, butterflake rolls, creamed spinach, corn on the cob and milk chocolate pudding for dessert. Frank's stomach had been rumbling since church from the smells Henry and Linda had wafting out of the kitchen, but he'd behaved himself and played a hard-hitting game of Monopoly with Danny and the boys until it was ready. Dinner itself had been a relaxed affair this week, with the biggest consternation coming over Danny sharing a few too many details about a body that had been recovered the day before from a storm drain under Flushing Avenue, west of the BQE.

Standing at the kitchen sink afterwards, Frank ran silverware and glasses under the rush of warm water, smiling to himself. Nicky was next to him, a dishrag in her hands, on drying duty for the week. "What's so funny, Grandpa?"

He shook his head as the sounds of the house behind him filtered in - Henry, laughing as he helped Erin clear the table; Linda, quieting the boys as they got louder and louder around a video game in the living room. "Nothing, sweetheart," he replied. "It's just nice to have everyone here."

She smiled herself at that, then nodded a greeting to her aunt as Linda stepped up beside Frank, already pulling on her dishwashing gloves. "Why don't you let me take over here, huh?" she asked, nudging him gently in the side.

"I've got it," he replied, slightly puzzled by her insistence. "If you cooked, the least I can do is bat clean-up."

Linda raised up on her toes to drop a light kiss on his cheek, then jerked her head towards the doorway behind them. "Go check in on those two boys of yours," she said.

He held her knowing gaze for a moment, then nodded, stepping away from the sink to let her slide in. Nicky handed over a dry dish towel, and Frank accepted it gratefully, his mind already turning back to the dinner table discussion to analyze anything he might have missed. Danny had been his usual self at dinner, eating and sharing war stories with gusto, and Jamie had been subdued but not unduly so. In fact, his youngest had been more forthcoming than he'd been in months, and had eaten more, too.

But now that he thought about it, Frank had seen him absently rubbing at a telltale spot under his collarbone more than once. The spot that might have killed him if not for his vest.

Frank felt a cold chill at that, the shudder zipping up his spine.

Henry and Erin were still at work in the dining room, and the living room was filled with the larger-than-life presence of his exuberant grandsons. He didn't see Jamie and Danny at all, but when he stepped into the foyer he caught their muted voices and moved to the bottom of the steps, peering up. Jamie was sitting near the top, facing the wall, his back braced against the spindles of the wooden banister. Danny was sprawled out a few steps below him, wine glass from dinner still in his hand. "...telling you, kid, it was the last place those cops looked but it made perfect sense afterwards. Talk about hiding a body in plain sight."

"This is morbid, Danny." Jamie's voice was amused and easy, not strained, and Frank felt something tight inside his gut relax. "Let's talk about the Jets."

"What's wrong with loving my work?" Danny grinned cheekily at his younger brother, then caught Frank from the corner of his eye. "Dad, hey. C'mon up here."

"We have dozens of perfectly good chairs in this house," Frank pointed out dryly, but climbed a few steps anyway, easing himself down. His joints and bones didn't appreciate these sorts of accommodations like they used to, but he wouldn't miss mended fences between his oldest and youngest for anything.

Jamie reached over to the step just above him and lifted up his own wine glass. "You want something to drink, Dad?"

"No, I'm fine, son." He let his critical gaze rest upon Jamie. His son looked better, he had to admit. He didn't seem as pale, and the bags of exhaustion and worry beneath his eyes had begun to lift. Frank hated to admit it, but he hadn't done the best job of checking in on his son in the aftermath of Vinny Cruz's death. It hadn't been his finest moment as a parent, but sometimes the job had to come first - for him and for his son alike. "What happened to your hand?"

Jamie glanced down at the angry scratch across the back of his right hand. "Hazard of the job."

"Six-year-old attack you with play scissors?" Danny's eyes sparkled at Jamie over the rim of his glass.

Jamie smirked back. "A perp rabbited straight into a barbed wire fence. Did my job for me."

Danny laughed out loud. "I love it when that happens."

"So how are you doing, Jamie?" Frank asked. "Things going okay with Renzulli?"

Jamie nodded. "I'm getting a new partner in a few weeks. Back to normal, you know?" He smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but his gaze was steady when it met Frank's. "I'm all right."

Frank put on his patented Dad Stare, which had been second only to Mary's evil eye when it came to getting the truth out of his kids. "And if I told you I'm not looking for the politically correct answer?"

Jamie didn't flinch under Frank's level gaze. His youngest son might not look a damn thing like him, but at moments like this, there was no doubting he was Frank Reagan's son. "I'm not great," he admitted. "But... I'm all right. Really. I'm getting through." He looked at Danny again. "One day at a time."

Danny grinned. "That's my boy."

And the weight of guilt Frank had felt over not being there for his son lifted, diffused, dissipated like a sigh on the wind. Where he failed, his oldest son had stepped in. Thank God for family. "Good," Frank said aloud. "Good. How's the shoulder?"

"Getting better. A little stiff still in the mornings, but that's starting to pass."

"Eh, you'll be fine," Danny said dismissively. "A graze like that has gotta be cake compared to the Wool Sock Slip."

Jamie put a hand over his eyes as Frank frowned, glancing back and forth between them. "The what?"

"Don't you remember, Dad? When this twerp was seven or eight-"

"I was six."

"-whatever, he used to come barreling down these stairs at a hundred miles an hour wearing these wool socks, and every time his feet would go right out from under him and he'd end up either wedged under the banister or flat on his face down there in the foyer." Danny shook his head fondly. "And mom would go nuts but he never broke anything. Like he was made out of bubble wrap or something."

Frank scowled as Danny took another sip of wine. "That doesn't sound very funny."

"Well, when you're sixteen and your kid brother just took a header for, like, the fifth time that week, all you can do is laugh." He gave Jamie a playful nudge, then looked over at Frank. "How do you not remember that?"

"The ER visits are starting to come back to me," he sighed.

"We should've have left up the baby gates until you were, like, ten at least," Danny chuckled.

"Joe used to say that, too." Jamie's reflective gaze turned to the empty top step. "He always used to hang out on these steps with us when we were kids. You remember?"

"Sort of." Danny swirled the wine in his glass. "That was more of a thing for him and you, though. I was out of the house for most of that."

Joe was never far from Frank's thoughts on any occasion, but hearing Jamie mention his name sparked a particular memory that made him pause. "Son..." Frank began. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Danny and Jamie both turned to him, but Jamie was the one to speak. "What's that?"

Frank looked at Danny's open, curious expression before putting his gaze firmly on Jamie. "Doctor Bainton... the one who took care of you at Bellevue? He's been the chief of emergency medicine there for years. He was the same doctor who worked on Joe."

Jamie's face stayed carefully blank. "He was?"

Frank nodded.

"I thought he looked familiar," Danny muttered, then drank deeply from his glass.

Jamie leaned his head back, cradling in between the banisters. "Why did you tell me that?"

"I thought you should know," Frank said. "I've... it's been on my mind. Quite a bit, actually. The way fate takes a hand. How life can change so quickly." He smiled, ignoring a sudden hint of dampness at the back of his eyes, and reached out to rest one hand on Danny's shoulder, the other on Jamie's ankle. "How important it is to savor moments like this."

"I wish I had been there the night Joe died," Jamie said suddenly. "I've always wished I could've been there."

"I'm glad you weren't," Frank said. "It was... that night... it was the worst night of my life."

Danny twisted his mouth. "And the night _you_ got shot, little brother, wasn't too far behind."

"I was okay, though." Jamie's own gaze settled into his wine glass. "Big difference."

"The fear doesn't change," Danny said softly.

Frank nodded. "And the night Joe died, Jamie... I was so glad, in that moment, that you and your sister were away from this life. That you would never be subject to the things that your grandpa and Danny and I were. That you were safe." He shrugged a little. "That's what made it so hard for me when you changed careers. I've always known you would be successful at whatever you set your mind to, Jamie, but selfishly, I never wanted this for you."

Danny silently passed Frank his wine glass, and Frank accepted it without comment, taking a deep drink himself.

Jamie winced. "I'm sorry."

Frank smiled, then shrugged, passing the glass back to his oldest son. "I could no more keep you from this than I could keep Danny from the Marines. Your mom and I, we raised you. We taught you right from wrong - we did our best. Then we had to let you go."

"Mom never did," Jamie pointed out.

"Your mom did have a little trouble with that, I admit. But she was so proud of you. Of you both. I know she always will be."

"Hey, if there was one Reagan mom was proud of, it was Joe," Danny sighed. "I was a troublemaker, Erin was prissy, and Jamie here whined all the time. Joe never did a thing wrong."

"Joe could read your mother better than anyone under this roof," Frank replied, shaking his head. "He did plenty; he was just a master at making sure he stayed on your mom's good side. Probably could've taught me a thing or two about it."

Jamie's eyes wandered back to the top of the stairs, turning thoughtful. "Joe had a way of making things right."

"Maybe he still does," Danny mused, then shrugged and leaned forward to give Jamie's knee a friendly slap. "So you ready to rejoin the family, kid? We're probably already in the doghouse for skipping cleanup."

Jamie ignored him, his eyes still on the top steps. "He was never afraid of anything, was he?"

Danny looked puzzled. "What do you mean? Joe? Of course he was. Dad here could scare the living daylights out of him just by looking at his sideways."

"No, I mean... Joe was always so confident in the job. You too, Danny, and Dad..." Jamie twisted his hands in his lap, meeting no one's eyes. "How do you hold onto that kind of confidence?"

Danny frowned. "Kid, I do the job same as you. One day at a time, one problem at a time. If I'm confident, it's only because I've been well trained and I've got the Reagan gut, same as you. And I've got the experience behind me. But hell, this job's always gonna scare me a little. You'd have to be a nutjob if it didn't."

Jamie frowned. "I've never seen you scared."

Danny glared back at him. "Then you haven't been paying attention."

"There's not a cop alive who doesn't second-guess himself after things go bad, Jamie," Frank said. "We've all done it, your brother and me included."

"You need to watch The Wizard of Oz again next time you're over at my place," Danny said with a grin. "Make it an uncle night with the boys. 'Cause you've obviously forgotten everything that cowardly lion was trying to teach."

Jamie grinned, despite himself. "And that is?"

"Courage doesn't mean you're not scared. Courage is when you're scared, and you just plow right over it. Everybody's afraid. You just have to conquer it and do the job, that's all." He drained the last of the wine, then grinned. "That's what Dad does. Joe did it. I do it. And you do, too."

"'The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid,'" Frank said aloud. "George R.R. Martin."

"'What makes a king out of a slave?'" Danny asked, lifting his glass into the air. "'Courage. What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage.'"

"Okay, now we're quoting the Cowardly Lion," Jamie sighed, grinning despite himself.

"Wait until you have kids, Harvard."

And Frank leaned back, ignoring the ache in his knees and the unforgiving wooden stair beneath him. These boys, Jamie and Danny. His bones and his blood. Erin and Nicky, Henry and Linda, Jack and Sean. The air in his lungs. His family.

The beats of his heart.

* * *

**Author's Note, pt. 2:** Once again, everyone, I do apologize for my unexpected absence. I still have some ancient reviews and PMs to which I never responded, and I'll try to make that right this week. I'm also looking forward to your feedback on this concluding chapter. This story almost wrote itself after the season finale, and it's been wonderful exploring the many angles of Jamie's shooting and Vinny's death that the series did not cover. I'm very glad to have wrapped it in time for the season four premiere, too! Now, if anyone is saddened that this story has come to an end, never fear - I've seen the previews for "Unwritten Rules" and if they do what I _think_ they might do, I will absolutely write a sequel and call it "Heart-Stopper." Mark my words. :) Plenty more to come, as well. Thanks again for your support!


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